


On the Job

by Pseud-pseud-pseudio (feral_albertan_female)



Series: For Hire [2]
Category: Character/Reader - Fandom, Marvel, Reader - Fandom, Sabretooth - Fandom, Victor Creed - Fandom, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bonding, Canada, Canada Day, Canadian Content, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Fireworks, Fluff and Smut, Hot Sex, Jean Grey School, Killer For Hire, Mates, Minor Violence, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, Penetration, Penis In Vagina Sex, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Restraints, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Sleepy Cuddles, Spanking, Submissive Sabretooth, Submissive Victor Creed, Tied Up Sabretooth, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feral_albertan_female/pseuds/Pseud-pseud-pseudio
Summary: Victor Creed appears on your doorstep, bloody and hurt, three weeks after you stormed out on him. You let him in but why? What the fuck is wrong with you?





	1. Step Five: Have Some Restraint

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you've found part 2! Thanks for coming, and if you haven't already, be sure to check out part 1. Things'll makes SO much more sense, trust me. Would I lie to you?

Run away and hide indoors  
Live your life and do your chores  
Yeah, well, I'm gonna howl  
Lord, I'm gonna haunt  
And someone's gonna miss the Wolfman when he's gone

 -  _Wolfman Agenda_ by Shakey Graves

 

* * *

 

  _Shit_.

I was bleedin’ out faster n’ I should be.

In fact, should be healin’ up, but my body was absolutely fuckin’ refusin’ to push a few of the bullets out an’ I was runnin’ out of—what? Patience? Blood? The will to live? Feel like I’m going balls to the wall nutso.

 _Fuck_.

I’m close to your place an’ I know I shouldn’t go ‘cause I’m the last goddamn person you wanna fuckin’ see, but fuck you an’ your pride.

I’m bein’ drawn to you, the mark I gave you lightin’ up the sky like a fuckin’ beacon.

You better be fuckin’ ready, tiger.

I can’t wait to hear you cuss me out.

I just wanna hear your voice.

 

~*~*~

 

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!_

You practically slam the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, dropping your head back until it makes contact with the shitty, warped wood.

Bob and Doug McKenzie, your cats, are sniffing around the area, curious as to what the hell is going on. You wish you could tell them, but have no fucking clue either.

Victor Creed, AKA El Fuckbag, had shown up on your doorstep forty-five minutes ago, shot to shit and looking like a Connect Four board and you let him the fuck in because:

  1. He looked like sixteen tons of shit in a two ounce bag
  2. You’re training to become a nurse and know a thing or two about bullet wounds and shit
  3. You’re a fucking idiot whose hormones jumped into action the second Creed’s sexy growly voice told you to let him in
  4. All the above



You _tried_ to keep him out—oh god, you tried—but he’d called your bluff.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, tiger?” His baritone was hoarse and had been layered with pain. “Yer a _nurse_. Didn’t you take the Hippocratic Oath?”

“No. I vowed to ‘abstain from whatever is deleterious and malicious’, and your picture is by both of those words in the dictionary, so …”

His eyes had crackled when he’d looked up at you. “You’re just gonna let me fuckin’ die on your doorstep?”

 _Goddamn it_.

So now he was lying unconscious in your bathtub after you’d pulled five or six rounds from his chest while other bullets seemed to be leaving his body of their own accord like the goddamn bullet rapture.

He’d roared and snarled and cursed the whole time, his hands gripping the edge so tight, he’d cracked the porcelain.

You’re sure as hell not getting your damage deposit back now.

You need to take a breather.

Bob follows you to the kitchen, chirping happily, while Doug plants himself in front of the bathroom door, growling, his tail puffed up like a pipe cleaner having an allergic reaction. He’s the braver of the two but sometimes you aren’t sure if he just too stupid to be afraid—like you.

Victor Creed is the human equivalent of a nuclear bomb that’s been wrapped in barbed wire, surrounded by fifty rabid dogs that are also wrapped in barbed wire, and the dogs are carrying loaded machine guns. That they know how to use.

Then that hot mess has been crammed into one tall, blonde, sexy package. You know you should be scared of what’s in the box but you’re having such a great time playing with it—and it doesn’t help that the box is super-fantastic at sex.

But the box is also really great at pissing you off.

Before El Fuckbag showed up unexpectedly, no one knew where you lived and you made fucking sure of that. The only visitor you get is your elderly neighbour, Mr. Mazur, who likes to drop of bottles off vodka “from the home country!” or treats and toys for the cats. He feels it’s his duty to check in on you, but he’s really just lonely. You think he’s sweet.

Other than Mr. Mazur, you keep your shit on the DL, like Bigfoot.

All mail goes to a P.O. box, you have no credit cards (because C.R.E.A.M. or Cash Rules Everything Around Me. Wu-Tang Clan gets it), and all of your bills are paid from a phony third-party account with a fake name on it. You don’t even get goddamn take-out delivered here.

Not that you’ve been able to pay bills since El Fuckbag had taken all of your money three weeks ago and hadn’t returned it—it wasn’t like he needed it. And ever since he’d whammied you with that bite on your neck, you’ve been too sick to work (so you’d been fired) and you’d missed too much of your practicum to make the needed hours.

Whatever flim-flam jim-jam El Fuckbag has placed on you it’s turned your life into a giant shit show given an extended run on Broadway with music by Ted Nugent, post _Wango Tango_.

You’re pretty much fucked and not in the good way.

You need a fucking drink.

Mr. Mazur’s vodka is the only booze you have right now, so you twist off the cap and the scent reminiscent of burning hair hits your nose. You’d shared some shots with him and spilled a few drops of it on the countertop; it ate straight through the cheap pressboard. At the time, you’d thought it was the most hilarious thing you’d ever seen in your life.

Now your life was the most hilarious thing that you’d ever seen in your life but in a sad hilarious way, not a hilarious hilarious way.

With a shrug, you lift the vodka to your lips and take a healthy swig. The stuff is sheer drain cleaner and it goes down as smooth as razor blades. You choke and your throat mutinies, forcing the liquid out of your nose. It burns like both fire and the sun are having sex in your nostrils and your eyes water and blur as your knees hit the floor.

As you cough and snort and sniffle on the stained and peeling linoleum of your kitchen, you hear a voice.

“You okay, tiger?”

El Fuckbag. You can’t really see him though since your eyes are the Niagara Falls all of a sudden, but you manage to speak.

“Peach keen, jellybean.” Your voice is hoarse and you’re probably Tom Waits forever.

Creed chuckles and you sense him coming closer. He brings his animalistic heat with him; you find yourself reacting to it, a warmth blooming in your belly. You wipe inelegantly at your face, clearing your vision.

He’s standing before you, shirtless (!!) and painted in blood. His long blonde hair is lank and stringy, soaked with sweat and gore; his beautiful amber eyes are bloodshot. Creed looks like he’d been flung from the CN Tower, driven over at least twenty-seven times, and eaten and shat out by a moose.

As his eyes travel over you, you’re sure you don’t look any better, your hair swiped back into a messy bun, tears and snot all over your face, which is red from choking on liquor.

But despite the fact Creed looks like complete garbage, your body is ready to make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Okay, maybe fifteen; you don’t want to cheat yourself.

He makes the “gimmie” gesture and you hand him the vodka, which he turns in his bloody hand so he can read the handmade label. It’s in Polish. Which he can apparently read?

“Christ,” Creed laughs. “You don’t fuck around, do ya?” He lifts the bottle to his mouth and it’s gone in three healthy swallows. He doesn’t cough or choke, just lowers the empty bottle from his mouth with a satisfied sigh.

“Show off,” you scoff getting to your feet.

He looks at the bottle again, impressed. “Now that’s some quality shit.”

“My neighbour’s brother makes it,” you say, “in the home country.”

Creed drops his arm to his side, the neck of the bottle caught between his large, thick fingers. “C’mere,” he says and you step closer to him.

 _Fuck_. Why does he have such control over you?

You stiffen when he lowers his head to your neck, his breath hot over the bite he’d given you three weeks ago. Three weeks and it still hasn’t healed.

He inhales deeply and your tilt your head slightly, allowing him even closer. A moan slips from you as his rough tongue grazes over the wound. Creed’s free hand comes up and palms the back of your neck, his fingertips caressing your hairline.

His tongue is firmer this time as it circles the swollen mark, sending shockwaves of bliss through your body. This is the first time the thing felt good since … well, since Creed gave it to you. You remember the crash of orgasmic euphoria the second his teeth pierced your skin and how you’d screamed his name as he’d lapped at the blood that spilled from the bite.

Your fingers find the belt loops of his jeans and you pull him closer, craving that sexual, primal _something_ that constantly surrounds him.

“Missed you, tiger,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over your ear.

Creed’s voice snaps you back. He’s almost tight against you, your clothes sticking to the tacky blood on his chest. You avoid his mouth as he tries to kiss you, his lips skating across your forehead as you turn your face away. His hand is still on the back of your neck.

“You’re covered in blood,” you say softly.

His fingertips touch the skin of your chest gently. “You could help me shower. Get my hard to reach areas.”

Jesus Christ. The thought of Creed naked and soapy under your hands makes your pussy feel like it’s a stalled car that’s just received a jump-start from a helpful Good Samaritan.

“I’ll—uh—get you some towels,” you say, letting him go and taking a step back.

He gives you that sexy half smile you love/hate and goes for the button of his jeans. The zipper is loud in the small kitchen and you’re helpless as you watch him shimmy slowly out of them like he’s about to give you the lap dance of a lifetime. You avert your eyes as he pushes them below his hips.

“Don’t gotta be shy,” Creed says, amused. “Ain’t like you haven’t seen it before.”

You keep your eyes turned away, even when the jeans land at your feet with the soft clink of his belt.

“I got some clean clothes on the way,” he says as he turns around. “Food too. You hungry?”

Fuck yeah you’re hungry, but not for food. You’re hungry for him, for his mouth, his body, his _everything_. “Yeah,” you croak out.

He nods and you watch his ass as he swaggers out of the kitchen, Bob trailing behind him. You don’t leave until you hear the shower start up, picking up his destroyed jeans on the way.

 _Fuck, that ass is fine as hell_. _And I want a piece of it._

Maybe once El Fuckbag is done, you’ll grab a shower.

A cold, cold shower.

As you’re gathering towels, it occurs to you that Creed said he was having shit delivered.

To your house.

Where you live.

Oh, hell no. Not with everything you do to keep your location secret. You don’t need El Fuckbag turning your place into fucking can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street.

Furious, you stomp to the bathroom and fling open the door. Steam comes pouring out, obstructing for vision for a few seconds. When it clears, you try you damndest to keep your eyes off of the silhouette on the curtain.

The big, beautiful, well muscled, long legged—

 _Woah. Down, girl_.

You clear your throat loudly and take a deep breath. “Mr. Creed,” you say and the shower shuts off.

You open your mouth to start, but El Fuckbag yanks the shower curtain aside, giving you an unobstructed view of everything, and all that comes out is a high-pitched _gah_ sound.

And is it just you or did the temperature go up about six trillion degrees?

“Yeah?” he says, a smirk on his face. He makes no move to get out of the tub, content to let you look at _all_ the candy in the shop. He’d probably let you touch all the sweet stuff too if you asked nicely.

 _Stop_.

You rearrange your face to look more serious and less like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t have things delivered to my home. You certainly know the importance of—“

He steps out of the tub and since the bathroom is so goddamn small, he’s practically pressed against you, wet and dripping.

You immediately become flustered, your face flushing but you keep talking. “—the importance of—um—keeping a—low—“ Creed tilts his head, still smirking. His scent of wood smoke tickles your nose and it’s almost too much for you. “Jesus Christ, put on a goddamn towel!”

You thrust one at him. Shit, you want him on top of you, making you scream and moan, fucking you until you can’t walk. His fingers caress the back of your hand as he takes the towel, and in your brain a whole bunch of excited cowboys start shouting _“YEE HAW!”_ and shooting their pistols in the air.

 _No_.

“Mr. Creed,” you start again, fire in your voice.

His hand comes up and strokes you cheek with his knuckles and you’re lost. You lean into the touch because now that he’s made contact, you want more, like you’re starved for him.

You don’t like it. You’re not like this.

“Call me Victor,” he says, his voice just a bit south if being a full growl.

Your body stiffens and you tilt your head away from him, averting your eyes. Satan will have frostbite on his asshole before you _ever_ call this … _man_ by his first name.

“ _Mr. Creed_ ,” you say through clenched teeth. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t have things delivered to my house. I try to keep a low profile and I’m sure that you understand that.”

“I’ll cancel if you’d rather have me walkin’ around naked,” he purrs, taking a step closer. You back up but the counter is behind you and you hiss as your ass bumps it. “If you wanna get naked too, I won’t stop you.”

A veritable plethora of naughty images flash through your head and your breath hitches in your chest. Creed’s nostril flare and he growls, grabbing your waist to place you on the edge of the counter. You spread your legs, welcoming him between them.

His mouth claims yours hungrily, your body responding with the same need, the same fierceness. Your flesh feels hot through your shirt, almost scalding; you want Creed to take it off, run his palms over your skin, devour you as much as you want to devour him. The bite on your neck heats up, pure flame zipping down every last nerve ending in your body. You start to feel like you’re boiling alive in your own flesh.

_It’s too hot; I’m burning alive. Oh, shit it’s too hot—_

You pull your face back at the same time you shove his hands away and you lean as far away from his mouth as you can, afraid you’ll give in if he comes closer.

“No,” you croak out. “We’re not—I’m not gonna do this again, Mr. Creed.”

“Jesus Christ, tiger,” he says harshly. “I ain’t playin’ you. What’s between us, it’s real. Stop fightin’ it.”

“It’s _not_ real,” you shout. “I don’t _know_ you; I don’t know anything about you other than the fact you kill people for a living and—and you _bit_ me and it still hurts and I can’t make sense of my life anymore!”

You’re panting for breath, sweat on your brow. You gently push Creed away from you and slide from the counter, going to the door. “When you’re dry, I’ll bandage up your wounds. Once your clothes arrive, I think it’s best that you leave.”

It takes all the strength you have to walk away from him, towards your bedroom where you keep extra bandages, antiseptic cream, and medical tape. You’re going to need a lot, more than what you keep in your medical kit.

You stand there a moment, suddenly unsure what to do next. The nurse part of you wants to rush to Creed’s aid and Nurse Nightingale the shit out of him before you send him off into the sunset, waving after him with your white lacy handkerchief.

The horny teenage boy in you wants to knock him to the ground and ride him like a unicycle until your wheel pops.

The other part of you is wondering if what El Fuckbag said is true. Is there really something between the two of you? Is it why you can’t stop thinking about him? Is it why you’ve been so sick since you’d left him? Does the bite—

It flares up again and you mutter a curse before you clamp a hand over it. Why won’t the goddamn thing heal already?

“I’m a mutant,” Creed says from the bedroom doorway. “A feral mutant. Means I got animal instincts an’ urges like stalkin’, huntin’, shit like that. Injuries aren’t usually a big deal for me; can usually heal just about anythin’ thrown at me except for carbonadium. That shit messes with my healin’ factor, makes me slower to mend.”

You turn to face him and he tosses you one of the bullets you’d plucked from him; it has a different colour, a different sheen from most of the other bullets you’d seen in your life.

You lift your eyes to him. He’s got a towel wrapped around his trim hips, another draped over his shoulders. He’s fucking gorgeous.

“Ferals, we got all those impulses, see? One of ‘em is choosin’ a mate. I got a beast livin’ inside me; sometimes it makes decisions. It chose you for me, tiger, an’ I can’t fight it. You can’t either.”

“Why?”

“I marked you,” Creed says. “The bite—it’s reactin’ the way it is ‘cause you’re denyin’ the bond.”

“Something inside you picks me out of a crowd for no reason and I have to go along with it? What happens if I don’t?” Your voice is acid and you’re squeezing the tube of antiseptic cream so hard, the cap is threatening to pop off.

Creed lets out a heavy sigh and flicks his gaze over you. “You’ll die.”

What the actual _fuck_?!

“Don’t I get a choice in this?” you demand, the anger in your chest making it hard for you to breathe. “Don’t I get to decide if I want to be in this or not?”

He’s quiet for a moment; the only sound in the room the frenzied beating of your heart. It feels like it’s growing bigger and bigger, filling your chest, making your ribs ache.

“You do an’ you have,” Creed says gently. “Did it hurt when I bit you?”

The bite had felt fucking incredible. In fact, it had driven you to another orgasm, one you hadn’t been expecting. You’re unable to form words so you shake your head.

“It ain’t healed, either. There’s somethin’ in you that needs an’ wants me, tiger. Don’t fight it no more. Just … just let me in.”

Every cell in you screams _yes_.

Yes to letting whatever weird thing is going on between you and Creed to happen. Yes to having his body next to yours every morning and every night. Yes to touching every inch of him and having him respond in kind.

Just YES!

But you can’t—you _won’t_. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not a _whore_ anymore. You won’t let another man control your life ever again.

You want control.

“I—I don’t want to talk about this,” you say.

Your chest feels too full, as if it’s filled with too many things: love, hate, fear, desire, rage, confusion and your heart is trying to eat all of it, trying to make sense of it all.

You need to distract yourself and you need to distract Creed.

“Sit down; I’ll get your hair out of your face.”

Creed walks hesitantly towards the edge of your double bed as you grab a brush and an elastic band. You use the towel on his shoulders to squeeze out any remaining water and move to kneel behind him, working the brush gently through his hair.

He relaxes slightly, those beautiful muscles softening as he sighs. After a few strokes, he starts purring faintly, almost melodically. It’s a pleasurable sound.

You can see his face in the mirror; his amber eyes are half-closed in contentment, his head tilted back slightly, exposing his strong, graceful neck.

The sound of Creed’s purr attracts both Bob and Doug. The former trots into the room and starts rubbing himself against the man’s legs, trilling happily. He doesn’t seem to mind the small grey and white cat weaving around his ankles blissfully, almost flirtatiously.

Doug is a little more suspicious. His steps are cautious as he enters to search for the source of the noise. When he finds it’s Creed, he hisses and arches his back, his tail puffing up as he crouches low to the floor and scuttles under the bed with a tiny growl.

Creed’s hair is soft and beautiful under your fingers as you twist it into a herringbone braid, the strands slippery and damp. You imagine burying your hands in it, pulling on it hard while he thrusts into you roughly, making you cry out—

 _Shit. Get it together_.

Just as you secure the elastic and release Creed’s hair, he reaches forward and grabs Doug’s enlarged tail, letting loose with a sharp, feline hiss. Doug loses his shit, yowling and screeching, streaking away the second his tail is released. You hear the cat tearing around the living room, knocking stuff from shelves, his claws puncturing the sofa and curtains as he freaks the fuck out.

“That wasn’t very nice,” you snap.

El Fuckbag laughs, having scared at least seven of Doug’s nine lives out of the poor thing.

“I ain’t a nice guy, tiger,” he chuckles. The laugh fades to a groan and he grimaces, pressing a hand to his abdomen.

You move around him, gently pushing Bob out of your way in order to wipe off the blood seeping from the wound. Once clear, you quickly bandage it up, securing it with a ton of medical tape. You continue on, patching up the rest of the holes, smearing on antibacterial cream before you apply the gauze. Creed’s skin is cool under your touch and it feels amazing under your fingertips. It should calm you, but it doesn’t.

You’re angry that he’s here, that’s he’s taking up space in you life that you can’t fucking afford. You’re angry that you’re helping him despite the fact he refused to help you. You’re angry that your life isn’t your own; it belongs to either Creed or the man who’s trying to kill you.

“Lie on your stomach,” you command, barely able to keep the rage from your voice.

He doesn’t say a word as he gets to his feet and arranges himself on your bed. He’s so tall, his feet hang off the edge, but you’re beyond caring. You just want to patch him up and get him the hell out.

You start cleaning the first wound and he hisses, his sharp nails puncturing your blanket.

 _Goddammit_.

You forgot this kitten had claws.

“Put your hands above your head.”

Creed complies, his palms curling around the bars of your headboard. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot two things: the scarf he’d used on you in the diner and his belt.

You snatch up both, going to the headboard to secure his wrists tightly with the scarf. They’re bound so that he can’t use his claws to cut the tie or through the metal of the bar. You drop the belt by the side of the bed.

It doesn’t take long for you to bandage the rest of his wounds; your touch is quick and methodical, strictly professional, even though you want to hurt him, cause him the same kind of pain he caused you. You need to do it; the feeling is coiling in your gut, ready to strike. The belt feels good in your hand as you pick it up.

He doesn’t make a sound as you yank the towel from the lower half of his body. It’s as if he was expecting you to do it, to give him your anger and frustration.

Slowly, teasingly, you skate your fingertips across the globes of his ass. It’s perfection, taut and firm under your touch. He lets out a breath as you fold his belt in half.

“You haven’t been very nice, Mr. Creed,” you say huskily as you dig your nails into his flesh. “Do you know what I do to people who are not nice?”

The lines come easily; it’s been a while since you recited them, but you find it’s like riding a bicycle—you never truly forget.

He’s quiet until you tap his ass cheek with the tip of your nail. “No,” he gasps.

You move back towards his head, which he’s turned to the side. Only half of his face is visible, one amber eye wide in anticipation. You lean towards his pointed ear and nip it hard before you whisper, “I _punish_ them.”

On the word _punish_ , you snap his belt together; it makes the most wonderful cracking sound and makes him jolt slightly.

 _Control_.

Slick starts building between your legs.

“Jesus, tiger—“

“Quiet!” You snap the belt again and he clamps his mouth shut. “I don’t want to hear another word from you, only the noises you’re going to make when this strap hits your flesh, understand?”

Creed nods once, licking his lips. He’s already panting, waiting and ready for the slap of the belt.

You’re in control here, so you decide to let him wait. A little bit of suffering before the torture was always more fun; the sounds they make are more delicious somehow.

The belt taps gently along your hip as you leave the room, going towards the kitchen. Creed immediately starts gruffly keening with lust, calling to you, wanting you, and you have to clench your legs together to stop the wetness from flowing down your legs.

He wants you _so much_.

A glass of cool water helps you a little, wetting the dryness in your throat, but it doesn’t touch the fire burning within you. You want those flames bright and high, charring everything they touch.

His chest is heaving when you arrive back in the bedroom, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the covers under him rumpled from his wriggling and writhing. You lean towards the small of his back and drag your tongue along the perspiration gathered there. He gasps and pulls at his restraints but you hush him and he stills.

Creed’s belt is worn black leather, cracked and faded from years of use, but it’s still strong, still useful. You test it and twist it in your hands, enjoying the feel of it. He moans softly whenever he hears the leather creak in your grip, his hips rutting urgently against the sheets.

You cup his left ass cheek before sliding it down to where his thigh starts, letting him know where you are on his body. Back in your old life, this step was important. The submissive needs to trust you implicitly and the touching helps build that trust, that bond.

_Speaking of bonds…_

Back in your old life, you were a pro at this; it was something a majority of your clients requesting, including _him_ —but you don’t want to think about him now. You want to think about Victor Creed and how he’s completely at your mercy, how you have complete control over that exquisite and amazing body—a killer’s body.

The flames of the fire light a spark in your groin and travel up the electric cable that is your arm until it hits home. You explode like dynamite, bringing the belt down on his flesh with a resounding _snap_.

Creed groans through clenched teeth, aching his back slightly, begging for more. You stop for a moment to admire the swollen red line across that fine ass.

Damn, you forgot how much you liked this.

You brush your fingertips along the welt, making him hiss. You slide your fingers down the back of his thigh before gouging your nails into the meaty part.

“More?” you ask brazenly, sliding the belt across his lower back.

He whimpers and thrusts his ass up in invitation. You don’t hesitate.

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

Each strike elicits delicious sounds from Creed, animalistic sounds you’d never heard another human being make before. When you stop, a low growl comes from him and it feels as if it’s caressing your pussy. You can’t help the wetness that dripping from you now. You welcome it.

The marks are lovely on his skin, hot as you press your palm against them. His growl ramps up and, impulsively, you swat him in the sweet spot where his ass and upper thigh meet.

You love the fleshy _smack_ you get, so you do it again and again until your hand stings. Creed grunts and moans, his hips jerking against your comforter.

He’s oh so close; you can feel it pulsing around him, practically in time to the beat of your heart. You caress his ass again, gently this time, and he sighs, pushing it against your touch.

“More, Mr. Creed? You may speak now.”

“Christ, tiger, you’re gonna make me come,” he pants.

“Not until I say so.”

He lets out a frustrated moan and pulls at the restraints. A word that sounds suspiciously like _please_ comes from him, but you ignore it.

 _Control_.

“You have to do what I say, don’t you?” you ask slyly. Does your voice really have the same fucking power over him as his does over you? “You’re a dirty little whore. You need my commands, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Creed gasps. “I ain’t in control; I gotta—I can’t—“

“Now you know how I feel,” you snap roughly. “Up on your knees, whore.”

 _Control_.

He puts his weight on his forearms and pulls his legs under him until he’s kneeling, his torso still pressed down on the bed.

You pool saliva on your tongue and then let it drip into your palm. Once nice and wet, you knead his testicles with your dry hand before you wrap your hand around the base of his cock.

“ _Shit_!” he hisses.

He tries to move his hips so he can fuck your hand, but you smack his ass with a firm _no_. You’re in charge here. Like He-Man, you have the power, but not the power of Grayskull. It’s an ancient power, a _primal_ power.

This man is yours.

Creed’s cock is heavy and hot in your grip and you weigh it, letting it twitch under your touch. He whines softly, but you will not be rushed. You stroke your palm down the underside of his shaft until you reach the tip. An amazing amount of pre-come waits for you. You run your fingertip around the head, making him cry out.

The taste is like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before; it’s sweet somehow, pleasant, not salty or bitter like normal. That’s changed since last time.

“You’re delicious,” you whisper and he sighs, trembling as he waits. “I just wanna eat you up.”

He grunts in surprise as you flip him over, hissing when his abused ass hits the mattress, his pupils blown so wide, they’re almost all black. He’s silent as you straddle his thighs despite the fact you’re putting more pressure his punished posterior.

You can tell he’s not used to this, not used to being dominated, but he won’t fight it. He’s doing this for _you_. He’s giving you his absolute trust.

Creed bucks his hips in time with your tugs and you let him. He gasps your name as he meets your eyes.

“I want you to come all over yourself,” you whisper roughly. “You’re a dirty, filthy slut and I want you to look like one.”

He mutters a curse and starts thrusting his hips in earnest, his balls striking the underside of your fist. Your grip tightens as he starts straining against you, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps.

There it is again, that pulse. _Throb throb throb_. It’s his need beating in time with your heart.

He’s ready.

“That’s it, Victor. Come for me.”

His cock twitches once, twice, and he throws his head back, shouting your name and arching his hips as he comes, his seed spurting all over his chest and neck. More keeps spilling, so you keep your hand on him, gentling your touch as you ease him through the last of his orgasm.

A minute of silence falls while he slowly relaxes back onto the mattress, gasping for air; you let go of his spent member and get to your feet, studying his face.

“Holy shit,” Creed pants. “Holy fuckin’ shit. Jesus _fuckin’_ Christ. I ain’t ever come like that, tiger. Yer fuckin’ am—“

“Shut up.”

His mouth snaps shut and you drag a finger through his come and lift it to your mouth. He watches you suck the digit clean before you lean towards him and lick at chest. You don’t miss a drop, lapping up every last bit of his seed that you can find while he stares, a deep purr echoing through his torso.

“Christ, tiger,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can fuckin’ live without you.”

You reach over his sweat soaked body to untie the scarf and he sits up, rubbing at his wrists. You’re beginning to think you don’t want to live without him either.

You need this. You want this.

Creed pulls you to him, his mouth claiming yours. His tongue is quick to lick away any remains of his essence and you moan, already missing the taste of him.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly against your lips, “an’ I won’t let anyone else hurt you neither. You’re mine, tiger, just as much as I’m yours.”

His fingers brush over the bite on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You relax against him, feeling your heart deflate in your chest. All the things that were filling it are gone now.

“Say yes to me,” Creed says quietly against your hair. “Don’t let me go another second without you.”

You’re about to say yes—it’s on the tip of your tongue—when the doorbell chimes. You hear the patter of feet as Bob and Doug race to check out who’s on the other side.

“Just in time,” you say, pressing the scarf into his hands as you stand. “Better clean up, Victor. We’ve got company.”

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling in a really sexy way.

Somewhere in hell, Satan is figuring out how to deal with frostbite on his asshole. You wish him luck.

As you go to the door, you revel in the fact you feel stronger, safer, protected. You feel in control of your life for the first time in a long time. If you can take on a man like Victor Creed, you can certainly take on the fucking world.

There’s a smile on your face as you gently push the cats aside with your foot and pull the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wolfman Agenda by Shakey Graves written by Alejandro Rose-Garcia, 2015. Album - Nobody's Fool Released by Dualtone
> 
> Bob & Doug MacKenzie created and portrayed by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas. First appeared on SCTV in September, 1980
> 
> Connect Four - 1974. Released by Milton Bradley
> 
> Nightingale Pledge (1893) created by Lystra Gretter and a Committee for the Farrand Training School for Nurses. This is basically the Hippocratic Oath for nurses
> 
> Bigfoot - one massive, yet elusive, up-right walking ape-like being. Kind of like some people I know
> 
> C.R.E.A.M. by Wu-Tang Clan; written by Robert Diggs, Jason Hunter, Clifford Smith, Corey Woods,1993. Album - Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers). Released by Loud Records
> 
> Tom Waits - American singer/songwriter/my sometimes muse
> 
> CN Tower - it's in Toronto, Ontario. In case you're curious
> 
> "You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon?…It's the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs." ―Han Solo
> 
> He-Man: Masters of the Universe (1983). "I HAVE THE POWER!" *lightning* *thunder*
> 
> Satan appears courtesy of Hell™
> 
> More Canadian references! You're welcome.


	2. Step Six: Turn Up the Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were gettin' close to havin' something special, you an' me, but our timing seems off. Now it's a few days later an things have gotten kinda ... hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, this is chapter two of part two! If you haven't already, please check out For Hire part one. As that Life cereal commercial once said, "Try it, Mikey. You'll like it."
> 
> Even if you're name isn't Mikey, I'm sure you'll have a good time. If not, no refunds.

Don’t kiss me

if you’re afraid

of thunder.

My life is a storm.

 

\- Anita Krizzan

 

* * *

 

“I’m not fucking leaving without Doug McKenzie!”

Your eyes are hard, your face twisted in fury as I try n’ force you out the door. You’re holdin’ his brother Bob in your arms, an’ the damn cat is a peaceful as can be, purrin’ an’ happy just to be there.

Fuckin’ thing must have a screw loose.

I mean, shit, your crappy house is on fire an’ spread to your neighbour’s place, an’ there’s a dead girl inside, waitin’ to get all burned up. I’m kinda surprise you’re not tryin’ to beat the shit out of me to be honest.

“Jesus Christ, tiger, we don’t have time for this!” I yell, manhandlin’ you as much as I can without hurtin’ you. I know you’re strong as hell an’ could prob’ly kick my ass, but we gotta get a move on. “Just get in the fuckin’ truck!”

Your neighbour, Mr. Mazur, is already loadin’ boxes an’ boxes of Polish vodka into the back. His brother makes it back in the home country. It’s good shit but I didn’t tell the man to run into his burnin’ home an’ grab it all an’ take up room in the fuckin’ SUV. The back of his cheap dress shirt is smoulderin’, havin’ come too close to the flames, I’m supposin’.

“No!” You plant your feet an’ refuse to be moved. “I won’t leave without him!”

Jesus Christ on a fuckin’ oyster cracker.

I ain’t a nice guy.

I don’t do good things for people.

I sure as fuck don’t run into houses that are on fuckin’ fire in order to save a bastard of a cat that hates my fuckin’ guts.

But goddamn it, you’re on the verge of becomin’ my mate an’ I guess I need to score brownie points ‘cause the idea of the dead girl an’ burnin’ your house down seemed to drop my fuckin’ score back to zero.

It’s like, Jesus, can’t you just be on my side for once? Like, one goddamn time?

I shove you out the door an’ you squawk angrily, but I slam it in your face before you can give me an earful an’ run back towards your bedroom. I scented the thing before the firebomb an’ he was hidin’ under your bed.

Smoke’s not too bad, but the flames are getting’ hotter an’ brighter as they snack on your joke of a kitchen.

I manage to get to your bedroom an’ flip the mattress to snatch up the asshole cat (maybe we got more in common than I thought—heh) who immediately starts clawin’ an’ bitin’ at any piece of flesh he can reach. It don’t hurt much; in my line of work, I’ve experienced a lot worse but it’s annoying as fuck.

“I sit in front!” Mazur says as I come out the door. “Motion sickness!”

He makes a vomitin’ motion with his hands. I almost fuckin’ lose my mind.

I don’t fuckin’ care an’ I say as much as open the back door of the Escalade an’ slide in. I thrust shitty Doug McKenzie at you just as Ryan hits the gas. The car lurches into motion an’ gunshots start piercin’ the air.

“We’ve been made, Mr. Creed.” Ryan says, like I don’t have fuckin’ ears or some shit.

I only hope they didn’t see you or all this drama was for naught. See? I can use fancy words n’ shit.

“Well, fuckin’ step on it!” I shout, shovin’ you to the floor of the SUV.

Mazur surprises me when he shoves a C7A2 assault rifle into my hands. It’s a goddamn beaut. I glance up at him; there’s a wide smile under his greying moustache. There are more guns scattered around his feet, crammed into the footwell an’ I can’t help but be fuckin’ impressed.

“Pruszków mafia,” he says, as he clicks off the safety on his. “In Canada witness protection program, yeah?”

“You keepin’ these in your house?” I ask. How the fuck did he get them from the Canadian military? This is Canadian Forces shit an’ ain’t easy to get.

He touches the side of his nose an’ gives me a wink. “Connections, eh?”

All is forgiven about the vodka. Fuck, I’ll even buy this dude a new goddamn cab if that’s what he wants. Oh, yeah. Your neighbour’s livelihood was a bit of collateral damage I wasn’t expectin’.

“Shit,” I admire the weapon in my hand. It’s new an’ shiny. I like ‘em shiny. “You need a job now your cab’s done in?”

“Can you talk about this shit later?” You’re furious as you glare up at me from the car well, two cats clutched to your chest. “How about telling me what the fuck is going on?”

More gunshots ring out, pingin’ as they hit the back of the SUV an’ take out the passenger side mirror. I push your head back down, outta the line of sight.

“Hold on a sec, tiger.”

Ryan slides the window down an’ I take aim.

Oooh, I tell you, ain’t nothin’ better than shootin’ off a gun—though sex is a pretty close second.

Shootin’ a gun an’ sex are kinda the same, if you think about it: anyone can do it, but it takes skill to do it well. You can’t just get handsy or point an’ shoot ‘cause neither of those get results. A gun needs to be like a lover; it needs to be pliant an’ adaptable in your hands an’ you gotta know where the sweet spot is if you want it to go off right.

An’ if you finger it correctly, it’ll explode an’ send someone straight to heaven.

Ryan whips us ‘round a corner an’ I hear you let out the most marvellous fuckin’ set of expletives I’ve heard. Goddamn, you’re a woman after my own heart. No wonder my beast wants you so fuckin’ bad.

Shit, I want you real fuckin’ bad but high-speed-shoot-‘em-ups aren’t the best place for gettin’ frisky—trust me on that shit. Once was enough for me an’ I consider it a lesson learned.

Fuck, do I love the sound an’ noise of guns goin’ off an’ tires screechin’ on the asphalt. Mazur tosses me another magazine an’ we both let ‘er rip. The wind whippin’ my hair around an’ the smell of the smoke an’ rubber burnin’—shit, it’s enough to make me hard an’ it ain’t helpin’ that you’re crouched at my feet, your scent fillin’ the car.

It’s a mix of frustration, anger, fear, an’ just a l’il bit of arousal. You’re a fuckin’ saucy minx an’ if I weren’t tryin’ the kill the bastards who’re tryin’ to kill you, I’d mount you like a flat screen T.V.

Mazur manages to hit a tire at the same time I nail the windshield, takin’ out their driver. The SUV hooks to the right before catchin’ a guardrail an’ flippin’ off down the steep drop to some small creek below. Ain’t no comin’ back from that shit.

Goddamn, I love Canada an’ the precipitous plunges they have by the side of the road. _“One hundred foot drop? Put up a fuckin’ guardrail. That’ll stop some fuckin’ hoser from doin’ a swan dive. Now let’s go for some double doubles.”_

“Get a run on that plate, kid?” I ask as I come back into the car. The window zips up silently an’ I catch Ryan’s eyes in the mirror.

“Sent it off,” he replies in a clipped tone. “Waiting for confirmation, sir.”

“Nearest Wal Mart,” I tell him an’ he nods curtly.

He’s a good kid, Ryan. Smart. Fuckin’ awesome driver.

Well, good by my standards, which is sure goin’ to be a whole helluva lot different n’ yours. He follows my orders without too many questions an’ don’t talk back much. He’s a feral too. Ain’t gotta healin’ factor, but his senses are pretty sharp. Makes him an excellent beta.

You slide onto the seat next to me, droppin’ the cats on the floor. They immediately cram themselves under your seat. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on your face an’ your heart’s beatin’ like a death metal backbeat.

The slap is unexpected but it don’t upset me. I don’t stop the second one but I catch your wrist before the third can land. “That’s enough, tiger.”

You snatch your hand back an’ fling yourself back in the seat, arms crossed, breath comin’ hard. You’re pissed, but at least I got you your damn cat. That’s gotta count for something, maybe even get Sabey Baby some sugar at least.

Okay, maybe the plan wasn’t the best idea but I was runnin’ on fumes an’ outta time. ‘Sides, you coulda said somethin’ at anytime instead of keepin’ your yap shut; though I sure as hell couldn’t get you to shut the fuck up when Ryan showed up with the dead girl.

 

~*~*~

 

_Six Hours Earlier_

 

“Well, how they fuck are they supposed to find your body if there ain’t no body?” I roared in your face, your loose hair liftin’ away from your shoulders.

You were unmoved, arms crossed, lookin’ at me like I was goddamn Harvey Weinstein or some shit. I still wasn’t fully recovered from the bullets I’d taken the previous day, though your nursin’, food, and sleep had helped. It just hadn’t been enough to get me to one hundred percent because Ryan had shown up in the mornin’, roused me outta bed an’ presented me with a yellow envelope full of pictures of you livin’ your life: goin’ to school, goin’ to work, comin’ home.

Whoever was tryin’ to kill you wanted to let you know that you’d been found.

I sure as shit wasn’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you, so I came up with this idea: burn house down, body inside. Body identified as you. You get new identity thanks to my connections. Problem solved.

You didn’t have a fuckin’ problem until the goddamn body arrived.

Your first question: “Did _you_ kill her, Mr. Creed?” (Back to that shit now. _Mr.Creed,_ like I’m your dad’s work buddy. Still, it’s kinda sexy)

Your second question: “Then what the fuck happened to her?” (Fire)

Your third question: “A house fire?” (No. Burned alive in an alley. To be clear: not by me)

Your fourth question: “Who was she?” (Unknown)

Your fifth question: “Where did you get her?” (Best if you don’t know)

Your sixth question: “There’s no way anyone will believe she’s me.” (Dental records, re: connections)

Your grand statement: “This is bullshit; I’m not fucking doing it. This thing with her body … I can’t.”

So I roared in your face an’ you got all hissy about bodies an’ human rights an’ emotions an’ blah blah fuckin’ blah.

You’re a goddamn nurse. You’ve seen dead shit before an’ now ain’t the time to be queasy an’ I say as much, gettinn’ in your face—and you lose your fuckin’ mind, sayin’ shit like _that’s not the point_ an’ _fuck you, you fucking bastard_ ; all the shit I love to hear when it’s comin’ from that saucy mouth of yours.

Fuck me; there was a lot of yellin’, some screamin’, some kissin’ an’ a little over the clothes action before we went back to the fightin’. We threw some stuff an’ made out some more before Ryan got sick of waitin’ an’ did the damn thing.

 

~*~*~

 

_Back to the Now_

 

So really, it ain’t like you should be mad at me. You should be mad at Ryan. An’ I sure as fuck had no idea your place was made from fuckin’ construction paper.

Sure, we wasn’t _exactly_ prepared, an’ sure, we barely managed to grab some of your shit, an’ sure, Mazur’s place went up, an’ sure, his cab’s now in Dispatch Heaven, but you’re alive ain’tcha? Ain’t that the most important part?

Christ, by the way you’re actin’, bein’ alive isn’t makin’ you happy in the slightest.

You still ain’t talkin’ to me by the time we glide into the Wal Mart parkin’ lot. You ain’t said shit about this plan too, so fuck knows how big of a tantrum you’re gonna have—or how ol’ Sabe the Babe’s gonna haveta calm you down. I’m willin’ to sacrifice by body to the cause.

Ryan tosses me the keys as you an’ I go to the RV I keep stashed here for emergencies.

Yeah, I own an RV that I park in a Wal Mart lot. No one gives a good goddamn how long it’s there as long as you move it every few weeks an’ it’s the perfect place to lay low for a few hours while shit cools down.

The kid an’ Mazur go to the store with instructions to get a cat carrier, cat food, litter an’ a box, clothes an’ food for the rest of us. Me n’ you, we gotta keep a bit of a lower profile, so we’re gonna hide out ‘til we can get to the penthouse. That’s still safe at least.

Bob an’ Doug McKenzie skitter under the table as soon as you place ‘em down. Their hearts are still goin’ like mad, but yours seems to have calmed somewhat, which is nice. It makes my beast happy that you’re no longer in fight or flight mode. It makes me happy, too.

“So, what the fuck happened back there?” you ask, finally deigning to speak to me. See, another fancy word! I’m like a regular dictionary an’ shit.

I take a step closer to you an’ you don’t move away, so I reach up and tuck a stray hair behind your ear. Reminds me of the night I first touched you, how I’d brushed your hair back before I left the theatre.

“He found you, tiger,” I say. “Hitmen showed up just as we were leavin’. It was serendipitous, I guess.”

You let out a heavy sigh an’ turn your cheek into my touch. “Fucking asshole doesn’t even have the guts to kill me himself,” you say softly. “Is your plan really gonna work?”

My hand cups the back of your neck an’ you tilt your head back. I can see your entire face now. You look tired, defeated, an’ sad. I don’t like that.

Instead of answerin’, I kiss you. You respond immediately, body archin’ into mine like a cat’s, your arms around my neck. Your mouth is hot, your tongue wet an’ slick an’ you feel so good under my hands.

It’s been days since you spanked my ass like a redheaded stepchild an’ weeks since we’d fucked. I want you so bad an’ if the way you’re pluckin’ at my clothes is any indication, you want me too.

I can feel my mark on your neck throbbin’ like crazy an’ I can’t help but flick my tongue over it. It’s callin’ to me. You groan, tilting your head so I can nuzzle it, suckin’ on it like a lollipop.

I gotta bite you again. I _need_ to bite you again, make you mine. I shouldn’t ask ‘cause I’m not that kinda fuckin’ guy. I’m a badass moutherfucker who just takes what he wants, but I can’t seem to do this, not without you tellin’ me you want it.

“Tiger,” I growl against your flesh. “Do you want this? Do you want me?”

I’m holdin’ fire in my hands; you’re plain burnin’ me, but I can’t get enough of it—of _you_. You _are_ the inferno I’m desperate to be consumed by.

“Yes, Victor,” you breathe, your hands tangled in my hair. “Please.”

I can feel it in you an’ my heart’s pumpin’ wildly in my chest, my beast ready to pounce, ready to make you mine forever. I can’t help but think of when you’d tied me to your bed, each stroke of the belt carefully calculated before you brought it down on my flesh.

Jesus, the _power_ you had over me—an’ I couldn’t do fuck all about it. I don’t think I would’ve even if I fuckin’ could’ve. I _want_ you to have that control over me, to bring me back down if I go to far. You’ve shown me how capable you are of handlin’ me, of tamin’ the beast within.

I fuckin’ _need_ you.

My teeth slide in effortlessly, the skin breakin’ with a wonderful _pop_ an’ you groan, your hips rutting forward. I move you to the edge of the bed an’ sit, pullin’ you down so you straddle my thigh as I suck an’ lap at the blood flowin’ from your beautiful flesh.

You’re lettin’ out these little sexy growls as you ride my thigh, your fingers diggin’ into my shoulders. The scent you’re givin’ off is so fuckin’ delectable; I can smell the slick beginnin’ to build between your legs.

Your hips keep movin’ an’ I keep suckin’ an’ soon, you’re trembling against me, cryin’ out my name as you come. The surge of your orgasm makes your blood taste sweeter to the point where I can’t take anymore an’ pull away from your neck, pantin’ with my own need for release.

Your shirt shreds easily under my nails, your jeans are quick to follow. You let me flip us over so I’m on top, but stop me from ruinin’ your underwear; you’re slow to remove ‘em an’ my beast is gettin’ impatient.

I know you’re teasin’ me an’ it’s sheer fuckin’ torture, but the delicious kind. I feel like I’m gonna blow before I even get inside you.

“Hurry the fuck up,” I snarl, my hands practically tearin’ my own shirt off.

You smile at me languidly as your bra finally comes off. “Don’t get snappy with me,” you say mischievously. “I might have to spank you again.”

My cock twitches an’ I grab both your wrists in one hand, pinnin’ them above your head as I shove my pants down with the other. “You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare,” I say roughly as you open your legs for me.

Your eyebrows rise an’ your grin infuriates me. “Try me, big man.”

I have no comeback, so I thrust my way inside you, groanin’ as I push myself in to the hilt. Fuck, you’re still as tight as I remember an’ it’s all I got to keep goin’, to keep fuckin’ myself into your tight, wet heat. An’ the noises you’re makin’—shit. Why the hell did I wait three weeks? I should’ve been kickin’ down your door the day after you told me to kiss your ass an’ fucked you into oblivion. I shouldn’t’ve made us wait this long—fuck, _I_ shouldn’t’ve waited this goddamn long.

I curl myself over you—you’re mine an’ I need to protect you while you’re vulnerable—an’ start thrustin’ slowly, though all I wanna do is fuck into you rough an’ hard an’ deep.

 _Goddamn_ , you feel so good an’ you’re makin’ these sweet little noises that have my beast goin’ crazy. You plant your feet an’ curve your body up against mine, your skin slicked an’ sticky with sweat. I want lick it off you but I can’t reach all of you, so I settle for releasin’ one hand to grab a breast, lowerin’ my face to tickle your nipple with the tip of my tongue.

You moan an’ buck your hips a little, drivin’ me deeper into your pink velvet insides. Christ, I never wanna stop fuckin’ you. The way you fit around me … shit, I’d never felt anything so goddamn flawless in my life. You’re makin’ it easy to forget every one else I’d ever fucked; no one else can compare. It’s like you were made for me.

You prob’ly were.

I work my tongue between your breasts, lickin’ up that succulent perspiration, lettin’ it linger so I could memorize its flavour. Your gasps an’ groans are the best goddamn music I’ve ever heard, the greatest Oscar winning soundtrack to our fuckin’.

You strain against my grip, adjustin’ your hips so that my dick’s hittin’ you at a different angle. “Yes!” you cry, your fingernails diggin’ into the back of my hand. “Right there!”

I ain’t gonna say no to a request like that an’ a few strokes later, I can feel you tremblin’. You’re ready to give yourself over to me.

“C’mon, tiger,” I’m pantin’ as your walls flutter around me, squeezin’ me harder an’ harder. “I want you to come all over my cock.”

I _need_ to feel you orgasm; I’m almost fuckin’ desperate for it. My ultimate pleasure its makin’ you, my mate, experience your ultimate pleasure. It’s all I’m livin’ for right now.

Your eyes fix on mine an’ you let out a growl. The way you come is amazin’, all heat an’ hard an’ soft an’ wet as you scream my name. I fight to keep myself from blowin’ right there because _goddamn_ , woman!

I continue to push into you, lettin’ your wrists go so I can lift myself on my elbows. I mean to kiss you, but when I look down, I can see my cock thrustin’ in an’ out, covered with your juices, your body shakin’ each time.

Your hands are graspin’ my ass—the same ass you’d abused two days ago—yankin’ me forward an’ I start plungin’ into you recklessly. I focus on you givin’ myself over like you did to me.

You’re wantin’ it harder an’ I give you what you want, snappin’ my hips, your pussy still contractin’ around my cock. I shout your name as I feel my balls tighten; I hope you’re ready because I can’t wait to fill you with my come, to finally claim you as mine. One of your hands is pullin’ my hair, the other scorin’ marks down the flesh of my back.

“Victor, oh god, please come! Please!”

I can’t ignore your command; I roar, but that doesn’t seem important as your sweet, velvety walls clench me, as I come harder than I ever have before. I’m tryin’ to ride the wave but I keep crashin’ into the rocks an’ Jesus Christ, it’s fuckin’ incredible.

Al I can feel is you: your entire body pulsin’ within an’ without me, your breath in my lungs, your sweat on my skin, your heart pulsing in place of mine.

 _Holy fuckin’ shit_.

“Tiger, _fuck_!” I can’t say anythin’ else as I spill into you, the rhythm of my hips pushin’ you violently into the mattress beneath us.

Then you do something; unexpected: you fuckin’ bite me. You sink those sharp l’il teeth of yours right over my pulse an’ I feel my blood spurt into your mouth, your silky tongue smoothin’ over the wound.

Out of the fuckin’ blue, another fuckin’ orgasm tightens my balls an’ my vision goes dark, shootin’ stars streakin’ across the dimness. I feel you again, wrappin’ around me, closin’ in on me an’ it’s good, so fuckin’ _right_.

I thrust into you roughly before I’m spent; I’ve given you everything I have an’ I got nothin’ left. I’m careful as let myself rest overtop of you, balancing my weight on my forearms.

Your hair is tangled, your face glowin’, your chest shiny with sweat. You’re pantin’ for air, tryin’ to catch your breath, your hands grippin’ my hips.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” I say, an’ I fuckin’ mean it. You’re the most beautiful goddamn thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen an’ you’re mine—all mine.

You smile up at me, your lips still coated with my blood. One of your hands slaps my ass, makin’ me yelp.

“You’re such a fuckin’ asshole,” you reply.

“Bitch.”

“Fuckbag.”

“Slut on toast.”

“Kiss me.”

I do, lappin’ at the blood on your mouth, your tongue firm. You moan an’ arch against me; I know what you want.

Just as I’m about to give it to you, another fuckin’ knock on the door separates us.

“It’s Ryan and Mazur.”

You grab my face an’ kiss me again, a hungry, primal kiss that practically curls my fuckin’ toes. “Mine,” you whisper against my lips. “You are _mine_.”

Well, shit, I ain’t gonna argue with you.

“Van was rocking,” calls Mazur from outside. “We did not knocking!”

Your mouth presses to my shoulder an’ you chuckle an’ I can’t help but smilin’.

I know I’m in some serious fuckin’ trouble but I’m gonna love every fuckin’ minute of it. You’re worth it, tiger.

You’re goddamn fuckin’ worth it an’ I’ll kill any motherfucker that tries to take you from me.

You belong to me now.

“Remind me to pop Ryan in the nose when he gets in,” you say. “That motherfucker burnt my house down.”

Goddamn, I think I’m in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of poem unknown, date unknown - Anita Krizzan
> 
> Pruszków mafia - this shit is real. Wikipedia that.
> 
> Double double - Canadian slang for a coffee with 2 creams, 2 sugars. Used exclusively at Tim Hortons.
> 
> Child, you know what Wal*Mart is, please.


	3. Step Seven: Relocation, Relocation, Relocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's plan seems to have worked ... until you receive something in the mail that casts a shadow of doubt.

I smile when I'm angry  
I cheat and I lie  
I do what I have to do  
To get by  
But I know what is wrong  
And I know what is right  
And I'd die for the truth  
In my secret life 

\- _In My Secret Life_ by Leonard Cohen

 

* * *

 

 

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

 _Just what the ever-loving hell do you think you’re fucking doing, you stupid whore_?

The words that were once said to you in anger echo through your head at the most inopportune time, causing your hips to lose their rhythm. Underneath you, Victor Creed growls and his grip on your hips tightens as he tries to get the grinding back on track.

Both of you are (mostly) clothed and on the couch with you straddling the most gorgeous—and dangerous—man you’ve ever seen in your life and despite the both of you are wearing jeans, you’d managed to get the right amount of friction going—that is, until an intro for the local news popped up, showing a video of your house burning to the ground.

“C’mon, baby,” Victor groans, bucking his hips, trying to entice you. “Don’t blue ball me.”

His erection is hard and impressive against your denim-clad groin, and normally, it would take getting driven over by a Zamboni to tear you away from his super-fine ass, but you’re about to be exposed after six years of being on the run and that kinda takes precedence over fucking Victor’s brains out—but just barely.

“Hold on,” you say, removing your hands from under his shirt. “The news in on.”

“Fuck the news,” Victor growls, grinding up into you. “Wait, no; fuck me instead.”

You smack his hands away and pull your shirt on before sliding off him, ignoring his disappointed groan. You grab the remote from the table and turn the on the volume while Victor sits up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What the hell does a man have to do in order to get fucked in his own goddamn home nowadays?” He’s pissed, but you could give less of half a rat’s ass.

It was his fucking idea to burn your house down and his fucking idea to have a body in there that could be identified as you, but it would mean that everything about you would have to come out: your real name, your previous job, your involvement with less than honest people

Not that you’ve really moved up in the world, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you to him, your back flush with his muscular chest, and nips at your ear. “Tiger, let’s go back to playin’ Victor the Buckin’ Bronco; I’m pretty sure you was close to winnin’ a _real_ big prize.”

At that exact moment Victor pushes his groin against you _again_ (!!!!), a video of your house turning into the 9 th dimension of hell appears, an impressive fireball mushrooming up into the sky, the bright orange glow momentarily stunning both of you.

“Holy shit on a Ritz,” Victor whistles, dropping his hands. “Lookit that fire go. What was your place made of, matchsticks?”

“ _Badziewie_ ,” came Mr. Mazur’s voice from behind you, making you jump. “Vodka left behind, eh? It—um—It go _kaboom_! Bah, stupid! _G_ _łupek!_ ” He slaps himself on the forehead.

“Shut up, both of you,” you snap, losing your patience. “And how long have you been standing there, Mr. Mazur?” The man opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off. Maybe it’s best if you don’t know. “You know what, never mind; just cram it!”

Victor chuckles, but both men wisely zip their lips as another shaky cell phone video of your house fire comes up on screen. (Well, not _just_ your house fire—Mr. Mazur’s house and the empty and abandoned houses along that side of the street. Oh, and Mr. Mazur’s cab, though he doesn’t really seem any worse for the wear.)

The news shows picture after picture of the decimated houses, the reporter droning on about how the fire chief suspects it’s faulty gas lines as they cut to the actual fire chief who reiterates what the reporter just said.

When a photo of you appears, you can’t help the gasp that rips from your chest. The anchor says your name—your _real_ name—and that your body had been discovered among the wreckage of the house you’d been renting.

There’s a brief cover of your history—bad childhood, in and out of jail for various reasons, confirmed mutant, became a high class call girl that catered to many higher ups and bigwigs, after years of success in the trade suddenly left town and changed name for unknown reasons.

“She was always quiet,” said one of your (now former) classmates. “She was smart, but hardly ever spoke up in class. I don’t think she had many friends.”

The guy next to her spoke up. “You’d never know she was a high class hooker to look at her. I mean she was just so … ordinary.”

You knew this was going to happen, you knew it was coming, but it’s still an absolute shock to be completely exposed like this. It’s like having your skin ripped off to show your insides to everyone, making sure they get a _real_ good look.

It hurts a little.

Okay; it hurts _a lot_.

You’d kept your life a secret for years maintaining a low profile, not making friends, using only cash, and working grunt jobs in exchange for that privilege. You’d been going to university under an alias and now everyone you attended classes with knows the truth about you.

Now they all think you’re dead but that also means that the man who wanted to kill you also thinks you’re dead.

Hopefully.

Strong hands start massaging your shoulders gently. “You okay, baby?” Victor’s voice is soft. “Your heart’s bumpin’ pretty fast.”

You reach up and place a hand over his and squeeze gently. “It’s just—it’s really overwhelming. I mean, where do I go from here?”

His lips are warm as he presses them in that spot you like behind your ear. “I got plans for you, tiger. Don’t you worry.”

You stiffen. “ _You_ have plans for me?”

Victor sighs, his hands falling away. “Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that—“

You whirl on him angrily. “This is _my_ life,” you say. “I know we’re like connected or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you control me, got it? I get a say in what I do.”

His upper lip curls. “Don’t you go gettin’ all hissy with me, girl. If I remem—“

Mr. Mazur steps in between you two, earning a snarl from Victor. “No fighting!” he says firmly, like he’s chastising children. He whirls to you, pointing a finger in your face. “You! Say thanks to big man; he save your life! Save cat’s life! He save _my_ life!” He spins to Victor. “You! She is good for you! Too good! Be nice!” He slaps a big, yellow envelope into Victor’s hand. “Here! This is for you!”

The elderly Polish man dusts his hands together and trots off towards the elevator. “You kiss, love, be happy!” The door dings open and before he steps onto it, he says, “Want me to bring vodka? My brother makes it—“

“NO!” you both yell.

Mr. Mazur boards the elevator, a pissy look on his face. “Humph,” he huffs. “ _Dupkami_.”

“I speak Polish!” Victor shouts as the doors swish shut.

The look on Mr. Mazur’s face would’ve made you laugh, but you’re still feeling the effects of the news report. You can’t shake the idea that you’re being watched.

Victor’s penthouse (which had been recently redecorated—you have no idea why) is at the top of the tallest building in the city and practically every inch of it is coated in Stark security stuff, and you’re now the mate/girlfriend/wife/partner/life companion/plus one to any wedding invitation he’d ever receive (if he receives those, which you think he doesn’t) to one of the most ruthless and vicious killers in the world so you should feel safe.

But you don’t.

“Mazur’s right, you know,” Victor says, his hand on your upper arm.

“About his brother making the vodka in the home country? I dunno. How they hell does he get it into Canada? That stuff is more volatile than gasoline.”

His lips quirk into the sexy half-smile that makes your panties damp and he squeezes your upper arm. “Not that,” he says softly, stepping close to you. “The fact you’re too good for me.”

Victor Creed is not the kind of man who apologises. He’s the kind of guy who’d rather set your house ablaze than send you flowers or pass a dead woman’s body off as yours for a Valentine’s Day gift.

His words are a request for forgiveness and you place your head against his chest. Victor embraces you, wrapping you in his scent of wood smoke and the slightest hint of his delicious aftershave and you melt a little against his magnificent body.

“This isn’t easy for me, Victor. I mean, Christ, my whole life just got upended _again_ and whatever’s happening between us is so raw and new and confusing … but I _am_ thankful you did what you did, even though it was all shades of fucked up.”

“I know, baby,” he says. “This ain’t my first rodeo, so this ol’ bull’s a little jaded. An’ I _am_ fucked up, so all my plans are gonna be like that. Just so we’re clear goin’ forward.”

You pull him closer, rubbing your cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt and breathing in his smell like you’re trying to commit it to memory. Just in case.

He’s a need, like water, food, and oxygen, although you’re pretty sure Abraham Maslow hadn’t been picturing a tall, blonde, gorgeous hunk of man meat when he was building his hierarchy of needs. Maybe he should have though, but the man probably wouldn’t have gotten anything accomplished. You feel the defined muscles of his chest under your touch and lust curls in your centre.

Victor chuckles and pushes you away gently. “Don’t start with that, tiger. We won’t get any shit done.”

He shakes the envelope and crosses to the coffee table as he tears it open. The feeling of dread intensifies as a DVD jewel case and a piece of paper slide out. The sheet is parchment stock, thick and expensive, with deckle edges.

You used to love touching it, trace the ragged edges with your fingertips, feel the weight of it in your hand. It’s truly beautiful stuff, impossibly smooth and creamy.

You take a step back.

Victor notices your reaction. “Ain’t no scent, tiger.”

You shake your head and wrap your arms around your waist. “I know who it’s from.”

You used to receive letters on that kind of paper.

Letters from _him_.

The items on the table feel like they were pulsing, wanting your attention, begging you to look at them. You have an idea of what the letter will say but the DVD is a complete mystery to you.

It scares you. You don’t think you’ve ever been this scared in your life—and you’ve been bumpin’ uglies with a crazy psycho hitman on the reg.

Nausea touches your stomach and you retch violently (not because of the bumpin’ uglies thing) and Victor’s suddenly beside you, putting an arm around you as he leads you to the couch. touch brings you comfort.

“C’mon, tiger,” Victor says softly, handing you the note. “Let’s do this together.”

With trembling hands, you open the folded piece of paper.

 

_Mr. Creed;_

_You’re not the first to spill your seed between her legs and you won’t be the last._

I’ll _be the last, right before I put a bullet between those pretty little traitorous eyes._

 

It was unsigned.

You chuck the letter as far away from you as you can, as if it’s burned you. Its weight carries it an impressive distance as you leap to your feet, wiping your hands on your pants. You want to go to it, tear it into a million pieces, toss it in the toilet, and shit on it before flushing, but you can’t bear the though of touching it again.

Does he know you’re still alive? Is he looking for you right now?

“I can’t,” you say quickly, hating that your voice is shaking, hating that that dickless piece of shit still has the power to scare the hell out of you. “I can’t do this, Victor.”

He rises from the couch and wraps his arms around you. “I won’t let him hurt you, baby,” he says, his lips against the top of your head. “I’ll kill him before he lays a fuckin’ finger on you.”

Victor’s words are meant to calm you, but you start shaking the second he lets you go in order to grab the case and slide the DVD into the fancy-looking television you’re pretty sure came from, like, 500 years the future.

The picture is crystal fucking clear as an image shakes itself onto the screen: it’s a bed, one of the opulent ones that only expensive hotels possess.

“Oh, god,” you whisper, covering your mouth with your hand.

You _know_ this place, almost as intimately as the man who walks onto the screen. The second you see him, a whimper claws its way out of your throat. He had been _recording_ this?

He’s tall and handsome, dark hair, green eyes, and sinfully long fingers. “Champagne?”

“I prefer not to drink on the job,” you say as you come into view.

You’re wearing the most expensive dress you could afford at the time, something from the Bay, and a pair of strappy black heels. You’d swept your hair into a complicated French chignon, and one of your friends had agreed to do your make-up.

Damn, you look so young.

“Madame said that this is actually your _first_ job,” he says, pouring a glass of sweet bubbly. “It’s smart of you not to accept a drink from a stranger.” He picks up the glass and drains it, then tips it over to show that it’s empty. “See? I wouldn’t drug a beautiful girl like you in order to get what I wanted.”

You see that sarcastic smile you’re so good at as DVD You sits down to remove a shoe. “So, you pay for it instead?”

He clutches at his chest, like you’ve stabbed him. “Ouch,” he says. “Guess I deserve that. It’s like this, though: I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to chase women around. This is easier, simpler. Besides, Madame always has what I like in stock.”

He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, a tender gesture when Victor had done it, but this one seems creepy, calculated.

You remember thinking at the time how charming and good looking this man was. Fuck, were you stupid. _You’re still stupid if you think he believes you’re dead._

He sees you removing your heel and raises a well-groomed eyebrow. “Eager to get started?”

DVD You smiles at him wickedly as you dangle the shoe from your fingertip. “Well, this _is_ my first time and I’ve heard _so_ much about you, Mr.—“

He places a finger over your lips. “Ah ah ah,” he coos. “No real names here. As far as you’re concerned, I’m Felix.”

DVD you licks his finger and murmurs, “It’s your money. I’ll call you whatever you want, Mr. Felix.”

He takes the shoe from you and tosses it over his shoulder. You hear the _thunk_ as it hits a piece of furniture. “I guess we can always get to know each other after …”

You close your eyes as the sounds of kissing and the rustling of clothes being removed come over the speaker. A huge lump has formed in your throat and you don’t want to cry—you _don’t_ —but as soon as you hear the moans and groans, you start sobbing.

You were just a dumb kid, trying to get money, playing a sick and twisted game you didn’t understand. You were foolish and easily manipulated, happy to be among the elite instead of the dirt poor, thrilled to be making good money for once in your life, and ecstatic that rich men wanted to buy you expensive things.

He was right; you _were_ a stupid whore.

You open your eyes just in time to see Victor smash his fist through the TV, his fist making a gaping hole. He yanks it from the wall and hurls it to the floor, stomping on it with one foot, crushing it into little pieces. His face is twisted in fury and his claws are at full length as he grinds the TV into oblivion.

“Victor!”

His amber eyes snap up to you. His lips are curled back, showing his elongated canines. He looks bigger than he did five minutes ago and you realise what’s happening.

Victor is going feral.

It’s as intimidating as fuck.

“Go upstairs,” he snarls. You take a step towards him, but he jerks away from you. “Upstairs NOW.”

The last word is a roar that echoes throughout the penthouse, rattling the hanging lights above. You take a deep breath and move towards the staircase, fighting the urge to run.

Something inside of you tells you to walk slowly. Running would only ramp up Victor’s instincts, make him want to chase you. You didn’t want to be on the losing end of that particular race.

Halfway up the stairs, you hear more snarling and smashing, lethal claws tearing through fabric. Part of you wants to look, but the new smart part tells you to keep going, keep moving slowly out of his sight.

Don’t show fear. Don’t bring his attention to you.

There’s no door to the bedroom; the wall curves around, hiding it from the downstairs. The room is huge, taking up almost all of the space, except for the extremely lavish and embarrassingly large bathroom that’s hidden behind a sliding barn door.

It’s done up in silvers, greys, and creams, the bed low to the floor. It’s made up of a large platform that lies flat until it gently curves up, forming the headboard. A thick and gigantic mattress sits on top, like meringue on a pie.

Grey and cream bedding covers the mattress, including the fluffiest duvet you’d ever felt and sheets with a thread count so high, you’re pretty sure it’s a made up number.

Two black and grey nightstands grace either side of the bed—one bare because you’d only slept here last night for the first time ever—and the other had books scattered over, under, and around it.

A silver starburst chandelier hung over the bed, casting just enough soft light to read by and to ensure it didn’t cause glare on the floor to ceiling windows, ruining the view of the city and sky.

There was a closet you haven’t seen yet because all of the clothes you now own are in a plastic Wal*Mart bag that you’d tossed casually on the cream coloured reading chair in the corner. How Ryan had known your size, you’ll never know. And you’re pretty sure you don’t _want_ to know.

The bathroom is nice and cool and it feels great on your hot, damp skin. You’ve never been a pretty crier, so your skin is blotchy and shiny like a peppermint candy. The water washes away your tears of sadness, fright, and disappointment, but your skin hasn’t changed and you have nothing to soothe it or to cover it with.

Ryan and Mr. Mazur had picked up only the bare essentials last nigh: food, litter, and a box for Bob and Doug McKenzie, a few snacks to tide everyone over until it was safe to make tracks, and a few pieces for you to wear so you weren’t flashing your goods.

No make up, no shampoo and conditioner, nothing.

Victor had graciously let you use his toiletries this morning, which is what led to the two of you grinding on the couch like horny teenagers. He had enjoyed that you smelled like him, thought it was sexy.

You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, running your hand over the sinfully soft duvet cover. Last night had been one of the best sleeps of your life and you’re sure it was because he had been close to you, the both of you touching each other even in sleep.

It was frustrating because you didn’t quite understand what was going on. He wasn’t being particularly Bill Nye the Science Guy about it, explaining this whole “mate” dealie with common household goods and shit.

This whole damn thing with him—what the hell even was it? Was it some sort of spell or …

 _Be still_.

This new voice of yours isn’t fucking around. Victor appears at the entrance and you keep your body relaxed, no fear, no apprehension. His presence seems larger than life; it fills the entire bedroom, your entire body, your entire world. The bite mark on your neck tingles with anticipation.

Victor is magnificent, his whole body poised, held in a state of graceful readiness as he looks around the room. A few seconds of silence pass before you hear him start scenting the air.

When his beautiful amber eyes fall on you—pupils blown wide—you’re electrified, a blast of pure energy detonating in your chest. It causes you to gasp and he tilts his head to one side, studying you like you’re a bird on the other side of the window.

Victor comes towards you slowly, his muscles bunching and flexing adroitly with each carefully calculated step. It’s almost like a dance, each move so intricate, so subtle.

It’s breathtaking.

And so fucking hot.

 _Good. Be still_.

Victor stops when he stands before you. He’s a big man—bigger than normal—but looking up at him from a sitting position makes him look like a giant and not the friendly one with the rooster and the giraffe.

You say nothing and stay motionless as he sinks to his knees, wedging himself between your legs.

He lowers his nose to the crown of you head and inhales deeply, letting out a pleased growl. Victor smells your face, your mouth, and gently pushes your hair aside so he can reach the mark on your neck. _His_ mark; the one he claimed you with.

“Mate,” he rasps, his lips caressing the soft spot just under your ear.

You shudder as his barbed tongue scrapes over the bite, bolts of pleasure shooting to your groin. Victor clamps his hands around your upper arms carefully before he licks it again and again, until you’re panting with want.

“Mine.” His voice is hoarse as if it’s difficult for him to form words, probably because he’s teetering on the edge between man and beast.

Victor leans back on his heels, studying your face, like he’s committing it to memory. His nose twitches and you know he can smell your desire for him but he doesn’t make a move.

He’s waiting for you.

_Touch._

You reach out and caress his cheek gently. Purring softly, he turns into it like a cat.

 _Kiss_.

You claim his mouth hungrily, opening for him, your tongue stroking one of his sharp canines. He lets out a low moan as you do the same to the other.

Victor’s need for you is palpable. He’s trembling under your touch, gasping and moaning and _eager_. You need to feel him against you, skin to skin.

He offers no resistance as you pull his shirt off, even raising his arms in order to assist you. Your hands are immediately on his chest, wondering at the softness of his hair and the sheer strength you can feel under the flesh. It’s so incredibly sexy and it’s getting harder for you to control yourself.

“Victor,” you whisper, looking up into his eyes.

He growls as he reaches for the bottom of your shirt. It rips easily under his grip and you shrug it off. The second you’re exposed, his face is between your breasts as he eases you down flat on the mattress, nipping and kissing the skin there.

Your bra’s suddenly gone and Victor’s kissing and licking your nipples, drawing a sharp cry form you. His barbed tongue is a marvel; it should chafe your tender and sensitive skin, but it doesn’t. The rough texture sends a pleasure through you that you didn’t think was possible.

He nips his way down your body, that amazing tongue swirling in around your belly button before continuing lower. Your jeans and panties are shredded and you couldn’t give less of a shit.

Wal*Mart clothes are cheap and flimsy anyway. Bring back Zellers.

Victor’s hands slide up your thighs, parting your legs. You let him. In the few times you’ve been together, he’s never gone down on you and you are so goddamn excited. You practically yelp when you feel his hot breath on your skin and you’re _so_ ready for him, so _desperate_ for him.

“Please,” you moan, lifting your hips slightly.

He growls and yanks you towards his mouth. You’re about to explode and you almost do as his tongue strokes your clit once, the barbs grazing the hypersensitive flesh.

It feels goddamn fucking incredible.

“ _Shit_ ,” you gasp, grabbing a handful of his soft blonde hair.

He circles your nub a few times before licking again and you let fly with another expletive as you hold Victor’s hair tightly, your other hand fisting the duvet. When the purring begins, you almost go fucking crazy as the vibrations resonate up and down your body, hardening your nipples and causing goosebumps to pop up on your skin.

You can’t help but shudder as his claws prick the insides of your thighs as he pushes them open wider, pressing his face tighter against your dripping pussy, his tongue pushing deeper.

“Oh, god …”

You’re grinding against him now, wanting and needing that special friction, loving the way his blonde muttonchops tickle you. Victor’s purr intensifies and it’s too much, it’s too _perfect_ and you can’t keep it inside any longer. It has to come out; it has to be free …

“Fuck!”

You pulse your hips twice more before you’re overwhelmed, throwing your head back as you wail your euphoria to the ceiling, wetness flowing from you, Victor’s tongue eagerly lapping at it, getting as much of it as he can.

He gently works you through the last of your orgasm, kissing your thighs and lower stomach, nibbling at your bellybutton again. You let go of his hair and practically ooze into the mattress as you relax, panting for air like you’ve just completed the Canada Fitness Test and knew you’d only earned a participation certificate—which you’re totally fine with.

You barely get time to catch your breath before you’re flipped onto your stomach and you feel Victor’s body over yours. He’s on his hands and knees above you, his nose touching the back of your neck as he inhales deeply. His erection is pressing into the small of your back and you whimper, arching your back slightly so it skates down.

Victor growls lustily and his hands are under your hips, nails piercing your skin as he lifts you so your ass is in the air. One large hand presses between your shoulder blades, telling you to keep your torso down against the mattress.

His finger dips into your pussy to check and finds you still soaking. You suddenly feel the tip of his cock against your opening and you groan, thrusting yourself back. You want him.

“No.” Victor snarls, his grip tightening on your hips. His voice is bestial, rough and hoarse.

The air is thick with what has to be animal pheromones and they seemed to have burrowed deep inside of you. You feel unhinged, almost crazy, and you can’t help but wonder if Victor—in his feral state—is unlocking something deep inside of you.

You’re keening, your fingers digging into the bedding. The need to have him inside of you has passed more than sheer lust or desire. It’s a deep, concentrated necessity; you feel as if you’ll die if he doesn’t take you right now.

Almost as if he was reading your thoughts, Victor enters you, sheathing his cock in one quick thrust.

“Aaaah!”

He’s so impossibly big. Your pussy aches from the sheer size of it, the burn beginning to build. You know it’ll pass, that it’ll turn into ecstasy, but right now, it hurts; but like John Cougar Mellencamp sang, it’s hurts _so fucking good_.

The switch flips and you groan as you’re filled to the top with bliss. Victor begins a slow, easy rhythm, leaning over you as he pushes into your slick and tight insides.

“Mine,” he purrs, his hips starting to snap a little more forcefully. You moan, content to be moved by his thrusts as he licks the mark on your neck, causing you to cry out.

Victor leans back and his hands are on your hips again, keeping you still as he plunges in into you vigorously, driving himself deep, his heavy balls practically slapping against your clit.

You start making incoherent noises, grunts and mewls that spur Victor on until you’re screaming underneath him, hands fisting the duvet fiercely. It seems like it’s your only lifeline, the only thing that’s keeping you from soaring into the void of ecstasy.

Victor’s growls and his dick are stroking you in all the right places and your knees begin to tremble. You don’t have much left. His hand is suddenly in your hair, yanking your head back. He’s knelt up, bent over you, still pistoning into your sweet heat, his mouth is next to your ear and he’s snarling, the sound of it making your pussy tighten.

You want to tell him you’re going to come, but you can’t form the words. Instead, you howl as you surrender to him, your vision going white for a few seconds as you detonate.

Victor slams into you. “Mine,” he growls into your ear. “MINE.”

He arches back, roaring as he comes, his hot seed running down the insides of your thighs, dripping onto the duvet. A few more thrusts and then he’s pushing you down so you’re both flush on the bed, Victor half on top of you.

He’s still inside of you and you feel his cock twitch. It feels nice and you sigh, content. The both of you stay like this for a few moments, catching your breath, until he pulls out of you and rolls to his side.

You look at his face and see no trace of the animal that had been here earlier. His amber eyes are wide with concern. A smile comes to your lips but he doesn’t smile back. Instead, his hand comes up and touches your cheek gently.

“Didn’t hurt ya, did I, tiger?” Victor asks gruffly.

You move so that you’re facing him and run a finger along his lower lip. “You’d never hurt me,” you respond softly.

He huffs and reaches out to pull you close. “I don’t got much control when I’m like that, when the beast takes over.”

“What happened?” you ask, smoothing a hand down his chest. “Was it … the video?”

Victor brushes his mouth against your forehead. “You’re my mate. Seein’ you like that with another man, it made me nuts. My restraint ain’t so good when it come to that shit. Lost my mind; gave over to the beast,” He runs his eyes down your body. “You sure you ain’t hurt?”

You sit up suddenly and he follows you, alarmed. “You’re not—upset about that, are you?” A lump forms in your throat. “I didn’t kn—know he was filming us. I—“

Tears threaten to fall. Victor grabs you and pulls you against his chest. You sigh and lean into him as he rubs a hand up and down your back.

“I said it before, tiger: it ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. You was barely more than a kid an’ you made shitty decisions. We’ve all been there. Alls I know is that I don’t give a shit about anythin’ in your past; I just want you with me.”

You stifle a sob because you know that he’s a typical man when it comes to a crying woman and you really want to prolong this moment, these few minutes of peace and acceptance between you.

“An’ you—you ain’t afraid of the beast?” he asks gently.

You pull back, look directly into his eyes, and take his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “Victor or beast, both of you are mine, got it?”

He finally smiles and lowers his mouth to yours. He’s delicious, your taste lingering on his tongue. You whine and push closer to him, palming the back of his neck, wanting more. He gives it to you, his purr melodic and beautiful as you drink from his mouth.

After a minute, he untangles you with a chuckle. “Gotta stop this, tiger,” he says to your pouting face. “We got some decisions to make. Here; I got somethin’ for ya.”

Victor reaches to his nightstand and pulls out another large yellow envelope and smiles as you recoil. “It ain’t like that. This is a good one. Open it.”

He plops it down in front of you just as his cell phone chimes. He rises to get it, answering without hesitation when he sees who’s calling. Victor tosses a wink over his shoulder at you as he moves towards the stairs, still deliciously naked. When he’s done, maybe you’ll see if he wants to take another ride to Sexville.

Once he’s out of sight, you cautiously open the envelope and immediately upend it, closing your eyes as the contents fall to the bed. You dance your fingers over every item; none of it feels like a DVD case, but you there is paper; not the facny kind, though.

You open your eyes and your hand flies up to cover your gasp.

In front of you lies your new life: birth certificate, passport, drivers’ license, social insurance number, everything you’re going to need to begin again.

And thanks to Victor Creed, you’re going to do it right this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my Secret Life performed by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. Written by L. Cohen; from the Ten New Songs album, released 2001; Produced by Sharon Robinson; released by Sony Records Canada
> 
> Zamboni - ice resurfacer, makin' ice smooth as--well, ice, since 1949
> 
> Badziewie (Polish) - meaning "crap" or "shit"
> 
> Głupek (Polish) - meaning "stupid" or "idiot"
> 
> Dupkami (Polish) - meaning "assholes"
> 
> Abraham Maslow - creator of the Hierarchy of Needs, all basic things humans need to live
> 
> Bill Nye the Science Guy - making science cool since 1993
> 
> The Friendly Giant - Awesome kids show on CBC that ran from 1958-1985. Featured Rusty the Rooster and Jerome the Giraffe that lived in book bags hung on the wall. I can't make that shit up. Kick-ass opening theme song. "Look up. Look waaaaaaaay up!"
> 
> Zellers - Canada's Target--until Target murdered it in cold blood. RIP-1931-2013
> 
> Canada Fitness Test - Every year, this test almost killed fat l'il ol' me. Ranks: gold, silver, bronze, and participation. If you received a participation score, you got a piece of paper. That's it. Everyone else got cool patches. 
> 
> Social Insurance Number (SIN) - That's right; Canadians SIN while Americans have a SSN.


	4. Step Seven Point Five: Celebrate Good Times (C'mon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Canada Day! Just how happy can you make it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Canada Day treat for my readers! Enjoy and don't forget to hug your local Canadians. Don't worry; we'll apologise after.

With glowing hearts, we see thee rise

The True North strong and free!

\- _O Canada_

Composed by Calixa Lavallée

Lyrics by Sir Adolphe-Basile Routhier & Robert Stanley Weir

 

* * *

 

 

It’s gettin’ close to midnight. The penthouse is quiet when I come in, an’ to be honest, I’m kinda grateful.

I’m fuckin’ exhausted.

That ain’t somethin’ I cop to often, but I’m bustin’ my ass tryin’ to make sure that you’re protected. I’m been talkin’ to people who said they’d give you a safe space for the time bein’ an’ one of those people is a complete an’ utter asshole that I’d rather tear limb from limb than ask a favour, but it ain’t like you an’ I got lots of choice in the matter.

‘Sides, with his dumb-ass “code of honour” bullshit that he adheres to, you ain’t gonna be safer anywhere else—except space, an’ that shit ain’t gonna happen.

I fuckin’ _hate_ space.

But I swear if the runt touches or upsets you, I’m gonna fuckin’ rip him into a billion tiny fuckin’ pieces bury each sliver in a different place. I fuckin’ dare him to come back from that one, the goddamn bastard asshole.

You’re heart’s beatin’, lettin’ me know you’re in the bedroom upstairs. You ain’t asleep, which I’m also grateful for. Seein’ your face and gettin’ to talk to you will calm me down. Despite the fact you have the temper of fuckin’ Yosemite Sam, you exude this tranquillity, almost an antithesis to my goddamn chaos.

I’m like a fuckin’ vampire, feedin’ off of it, usin’ it like a rope that’ll help me back to shore.

I haul off my boots an’ shuck my coat, then fix myself a scotch before headin’ wearily up the stairs, think about grabbin’ a shower before listenin’ to your stories of the shit that Bob an’ Doug McKenzie got up to an’ kissin’ you before hittin’ the hay.

“Hey, tiger,” I say as I come into the room. I toss the scotch down my throat as I cross to my nightstand an’ the bed we share. The glass makes a _thunk_ as it hits the table an’ I start pullin’ my shirt off. “What did those bastard cats do—“

I stop talkin’ ‘cause I can’t take my eyes from you.

You’ve wearin’ a tank top with a Canadian flag on it an’ a pair of red an’ white panties. There’s a pair of dealie-boppers on your head, two bright red maple leafs bobbin’ back an’ forth.

“Happy Canada Day,” you say provocatively, comin’ towards me all slinky an’ sexy-like.

I open my mouth to speak but my brain can’t remember how anythin’ above my dick works. It’s already at full attention, salutin’ the flag that’s stretched across your breasts.

Christ.

Your fingers curl in the belt loops of my jeans an’ you step in close to me, your scent swellin’ around me, fillin’ my senses. The kiss you lay on me almost makes me pop right there, an’ suddenly, I ain’t so exhausted no more.

“I think your true north needs to be strong and free,” you murmur.

You continue to kiss me as you work off my jeans, your hot little hand like a cattle brand against my rigid cock, makin’ me groan into your mouth. I let you push me towards the bed as you kiss and stroke me firmly an’ it’s all I can do not to blow all over your talented fingers.

Shit, even the dealie-boppers don’t even faze me. I like how they’re lit up, castin’ a devilish glow over your angelic face, tellin’ me that you’re an angel that don’t mind doin’ a little sinnin’ on the down low.

My hands reach for your tank top; I want it off ‘cause I wanna see those beautiful breasts, wanna hold ‘em in my hands, squeeze ‘em a little, but you slap ‘em away, drawin’ a disappointed groan from me.

“C’mon, tiger,” I whine. “If you ain’t gonna let me touch those tits, what’s the fuckin’ point?”

You smile wickedly at me as you push me back onto the bed. “Don’t think I don’t see all the hard work you’re doing for me,” you say. “I wanna show you how much I appreciate it and how much I appreciate _you_.”

 _Fuck_.

That’s the only explanation I get before you take my cock in your mouth an’ all I can see are those maple leaf dealie-boppers bouncin’ around as you suck me like you’re tryin’ to Hoover my brains out through my dick hole.

I forget words. I forget how to say words. I forget how to think words. The only thing I know is how great your mouth and tongue feel as they work up and down my cock, coating it in your sweet spit, your hand firm as it strokes me.

Your free hand cups my balls, clasping them tightly, an’ I buck, unable to help myself. My cock hits the back of your throat, but you don’t gag. In fact, you encourage me to fuck your mouth. It’s so hot an’ wet an’ I take advantage of your offer, lettin’ myself exploit your gorgeous throat, stealin’ away opportunities for you to breathe.

The dealie-boppers on your head are rockin’ roughly but they don’t come loose.

If you was any other person— _any other_ —I’d deep throat you to death, stuffin’ my cock so far down that there’d be no way you’d be able to take a breath. I’d suffocate you on my dick, spurtin’ as your heart stopped beatin’.

But you _ain’t_ any other person; you’re my _mate_ an’ I’d never hurt you—not on purpose—so when I hear you gettin’ uncomfortable, your heart racin’ with a touch of fear, I stop an’ pull back, lettin’ you get air into your lungs.

“Goddamn, tiger,” I’m pantin’ as you lift your head up an’ we lock eyes.

I can’t fuckin’ get enough of you.

You gimme a sly smile before you lick around the head of my cock an’ slide it slowly back into your mouth. I caress the back of your neck an’ stroke your hair before I poke at the dealie-boppers, makin’ ‘em spring back an’ forth. They keep up the momentum as you bob on my dick.

You move your head slightly and swallow, movin’ my cock to the top of your throat. It’s drivin’ me fuckin’ wild an’ I’m worried that if you let me fuck your mouth like that again, I’ll lose control an’ hurt you.

I grab your ponytail an’ pull you up so I can see your eyes. “No more, tiger,” I growl. “Gimme that pussy instead.”

You don’t say a word as you climb up my body, lickin’ your way up my abs an’ chest, makin’ my purr turned to chuffs of heat an’ I see your eyes change, pupils blown. I’ve got you fuckin’ crazy an’ I love it.

But you’ve got me fuckin’ crazy, too. I’d be goddamn stupid to deny it.

“Jesus Christ,” I groan as you sink down on my dick, swallowin’ it all up in your wet, tight hole.

A keenin’ sound comes from between your clenched teeth. I know it hurts you when you first take me inside but I can tell when the pain stops an’ it starts feelin’ good. Your shirt’s gotta come off an’ I yank at it, rippin’ it before you start movin’. You ain’t wearin’ a bra an’ my hands are immediately on your tits, squeezin’, just like I wanted.

“Oh fuck, Victor!” you gasp as I skate my thumbnails around your hard nipples. “You feel fucking amazing!”

Now I know it’s feelin’ good. Fuck, I’m feelin’ fuckin’ awesome.

Those dealie-boppers are jouncin’ like fuckin’ Mexican jumpin’ beans as you grind yourself down on my cock. It should be distractin’, but it ain’t. It’s just a part of you, silliness you’re able to spin into white-hot sexiness—my playful little tiger.

As your fingernails dig into my flesh, you let out a sexy little growl that lets me know you’re close to comin’. I reach down an’ grab your ass, pullin’ you down as I thrust up an’ it ain’t too long until you’re screamin’, your velvety, delicious pussy grippin’ me tightly.

Hearin’ you shout my name is enough for me; I come with a growl, drivin’ myself as deep as I can go while I spill into you, your name on my lips. You drive your hips forward a few more times, easin’ us through our orgasms until we’ve given each other our all. You lean forward with a sigh, lickin’ at the sweat from my chest.

Those fuckin’ dealie-boppers bounce as I grab your face an’ yank it to mine, kissin’ you like I’m gonna eat ya. You sweep your saucy little tongue over my canines, makin’ me shudder with delight.

I break the kiss, a thin strand of saliva stretchin’ from your lips to mine. “Christ,” I say softly. “If that’s how you’re gonna thank me, I’m gonna have to start doin’ more nice shit for you.”

You smile an’ lean down to nuzzle my neck an’ the dealie-boppers bop me in the eye. We laugh as you take ‘em off an’ toss ‘em across the room.

“Well, my intentions may have been a bit more selfish than I let on,” you say, nippin’ at my neck. “Anyway, we’re just in time to watch the fireworks.”

Sure enough, the bright lights start explodin’, colourful brilliance against the night sky. I put my arms around you, an’ you snuggle into my chest, your head tucked under my chin as we watch the interplay of sparks.

“Happy Canada Day,” you whisper, pressin’ a kiss to my shoulder.

“Happy Canada Day, tiger.”


	5. Step Eight - Look Over Your Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're finally safe, dropped off at the runt's excuse for a school or whatever he's callin' it. I'm finally able to take a bit of a breather an' catch up on my next project: killin' the man who wants you dead.

  
If you want a lover  
I'll do anything you ask me to  
And if you want another kind of love  
I'll wear a mask for you  
If you want a partner, take my hand, or  
If you want to strike me down in anger  
Here I stand  
I'm your man

If you want a boxer  
I will step into the ring for you  
And if you want a doctor  
I'll examine every inch of you  
If you want a driver, climb inside  
Or if you want to take me for a ride  
You know you can  
I'm your man

 

 _\- I’m Your Man_ by Leonard Cohen

 

* * *

  

Your heart’s practically beatin’ at the speed of light an’ can smell the nervous sweat that’s beginnin’ to gather under your armpits.

I can also smell my scent an’ seed all over you; I’d fucked you twice on the drive here ‘cause I’m gonna be splittin’ soon an’ I hate the goddamn idea of bein’ apart from you for so long. Also ‘cause I want no misunderstandin’ between me an’ the runt: you’re _mine_ an’ I want him to fuckin’ know it—and maybe flaunt it a bit ‘cause I wanna rub his stupid fuckin’ face in it.

You reach for my hand an’ I let you take it, wrap your small, warm fingers ‘round my palm. I ain’t a PDA kinda guy, but today, I ain’t gonna stop touchin’ ya (re: the runt an’ rubbin’ his goddamn face it it).

Fuck though, it feels great when you touch me. In fact, thinkin’ about it, we’ve been doin’ _a lot_ of touchin’ since we became mates, an’ not just the sexy kind neither. I fuckin’ love it.

I know you’re gonna be safe at this goddamn place, as much as I fuckin’ hate to admit it an’ shit. You’d asked me a shit ton of questions on the plane ride here an’ I answered ‘em best I could. I mean, I ain’t up on the runt’s movements so much these days.

So colour me fuckin’ surprised when I found out he was runnin’ a fuckin’ school. A school for _kids_.

Jesus.

James “Logan” Howlett is not the fuckin’ guy I’d want to be in charge of kids an’ shit. Not that he’s a kiddie toucher or anythin’ perverted like that; he’s like me— a soldier, a warrior, a fighter. We both seen and done shit that can fuck a man up, make him hard, emotionless, mould him into the kinda man that don’t have the patience for kids.

An’ now he’s in charge of, like, hundreds of the little bastards.

Heh.

The runt’s waitin’ on the steps, dressed in jeans, shirt, an’ tie like he’s _To Sir, With Love_ or some shit. Storm, that tall, chocolate goddess, is standin’ behind him lookin’ as fine as ever.

Once upon a time, I woulda given a million dollars just to taste her pussy, find out if she’s sweet or bitter chocolate, but I don’t have those kinda thoughts no more. Not since you. In fact, I don’t fantasise ‘bout no one ‘cept you.

You’ve really taken over my brain.

The runt’s eyes flick over us an’ I can see him scent you subtly. I know what he’s gonna smell, so I flash him the smuggest fuckin’ smile I can when his gaze shoots to me.

“Victor,” he says in his gravelly voice, his stupid face emotionless.

“Runt,” I say cordially. “Ororo.”

The weather goddess raises her eyebrows at my fuckin’ affability. Not that I blame her; I ain’t known for bein’ the most pleasant fuckin’ villain around.

“You must be Lily Ames,” says the runt, reachin’ out a hand to you.

Instinctively, I step between you an’ the runt. To my beast, he’s a rival, another male that could possibly take you away from me. I don’t want him fuckin’ touchin’ you.

“Hands off.” I say, my voice just slightly north of a warnin’ growl.

You radiate agitation as you shove me aside. “For fuck’s sake, Victor,” you snap. “You know I hate that whole, macho _don’t be touching my woman_ shit. I’m not your possession.”

 _Fuck, yes_.

I love it when you fuckin’ sass me like that, expletives fallin’ from that gorgeous mouth of yours, the same mouth that pleasures my cock when we’re alone.

“I like you.” Ororo says, her red painted lips tippin’ up in a rare smile.

You step forward to grasp her then the runt’s hand, givin’ them both a firm shake, expressin’ the normal platitudes, like _thank you_ , _nice to meet you_ , _let me kiss your ass_ kinda shit.

I know your actions are genuine an’ so does the runt, if the look he’s givin’ you is any indication. You definitely ain’t what he was expectin’, I’m sure. Given my track records with chicks, I’m sure he had you pegged as … uh, let’s just go with _different_.

Yet, here you are, dressed all casually in jeans an’ a nice blouse with low heels, bein’ all charmin’ an’ interestin’ an’ shit. An' fuckin’ gorgeous to boot.

His eyes snap to me again an’ I shrug. I dunno how this whole fuckin’ thing happened. Alls I know is that your mine an’ I couldn’t give a shit ‘bout anythin’ else—except for killin’ the guy who’s got it in for you.

The runt invites us into the school, he an’ Ororo pointin’ out various shit along the way. I smell a few more of the X-Jerks waitin’ in the office, so I ain’t surprised when we’re greeted by Doctor Henry McCoy (AKA – Beast), an’ Kitty Pryde (AKA – who gives a good goddamn? Chick changes her fuckin’ name like she fuckin’ changes panties).

Intros all around before the runt takes his seat behind the giant oak desk, you an’ I sittin’ in the chairs across from it. I’m surprised how fuckin’ comfortable it is an’ how I can fuckin’ fit. I guess they gotta be prepared for mutants of all shapes an’ sizes an’ shit, but I can tell they sure as fuck ain’t prepared for this.

Big Bad Sabretooth sittin’ across from most of the X-Bitches, practically on my hands an’ knees beggin’ for a fuckin’ favour. Thought I may’ve used up all my goddamn favours with these guys, but the runt’s curiosty ‘bout you won me yet some more good fuckin’ will. Prob’ly thinks he can save you or some shit, but you don’t need savin’.

You need me.

As if you’re readin’ my mind, you reach out an’ I take your hand, scootin’ my chair closer to yours so it ain’t awkward. I don’t suppress my haughty grin as the X-Idiots exchange glances.

The runt clears his throat. “You gotta understand this is an … unusual situation for us,” he says to you, tryin’ hard not to look at our clasped hands.

You shake your head in my direction an’ squeeze my hand. “I’d say,” you reply. “I know Victor’s been—well, a complete fucking asshole, which is a _total_ understatement, but I truly do appreciate the fact you’re helping me, no thanks to him.”

Goddamn, that sass. Lust coils in my belly an’ I’d certainly like to punish you for sayin’ naughty things ‘bout me, but that ain’t the focus here.

The runt gives you a smile an’ I feel my upper lip curlin’ back. I don’t want him to like you or to get too comfortable around you; you two ain’t gonna be friends, not if I can help it.

He starts jawin’ on ‘bout rules an’ shit—the four X-Bastards standin’ in the room are the only ones who know your real name an’ sitch. I insisted on that for your safety; in case the shit hits the fan, at least one of ‘em will know what to do. All the other “staff” (an’ I use that term lightly ‘cause I don’t think any of the ones could teach their way outta a paper bag) know you by your fake name, Lily Ames.

Lily, like as in Tiger Lily, my beautiful l’il flower that can grow outta the cracks an’ still come out all amazin’ like. I ain’t told you my reason behind the name. I don’t need you getting’ all sobby an’ shit.

The runt also lets you know you’re gonna be doin’ some hardcore trainin’ both mental an’ physical, again ‘cause I asked. You need to be able to protect yourself if I ain’t around.

He spews out a few more fuckin’ _blah blah blahs_ , but I ain’t payin’ attention. Never paid much attention to the runt to begin with an’ I sure as shit ain’t gonna start now. I’m thinkin’ more ‘bout if I can get you alone one more time before I go, really give you a solid handshake, if you know what I’m talkin’ about.

I manage to catch the runt’s look as he gets to his feet—he knows what’s truly goin’ on in this ol’ brain of mine—and everybody stands, you plantin’ a kiss on my cheek before you head out the door with Ororo, Kitty, an’ the Big Blue Gorilla in order for ‘em to show you around.

The door shuts, leavin’ me an’ good ol’ Jimmy facin’ each other, almost like old times.

“So Vic,” he says. “What’s the real fuckin’ deal here?”

“No fuckin’ idea, Jimmy. It just happened,” I reply. “I’m just as shocked as any of you.”

“Heh. I bet.”

He motions for me to sit an’ reaches down to his desk drawer, pullin’ out a fine-ass scotch, a few tumblers, an’ two delicious lookin’ cigars. I catch the one he flips at me an’ admire it for a few seconds. Smells like Cuba, the sandy beaches, the salt ocean air, the hot babes wearin’ tannin’ lotion scented like coconuts. Good times.

“’Ro’ll kill me for smokin’ in here, but it ain’t too often you an’ I aren’t tryin’ to fuckin’ eviserate each other.”

I light the cigar. “Storm’s gotcha by the short n’ curlies, eh?” I exhale an’ lean towards him, blowin’ fragrant smoke. “Always wondered if her pussy was worth it.”

Jimmy’s anger spikes as his dark blue eyes glare at me; it rolls across my skin like a dry desert wind. It woulda made me shiver if the runt scared me, but we’d gone up against each other too many times to even pretend anymore.

His reaction reminds me that I’d prob’ly launch myself across the desk if he’d said the same thing ‘bout you. Shit, you got me all twisted, tiger.

“Crossed a line,” I say with a shrug. “Still gettin’ used to havin’ a woman.”

It was the best apology Jimmy was gonna get. I mean, we ain’t the kinda guys who’re gonna talk it out over a cold brew an’ hug after, but my words musta done the trick ‘cause the prickle of his anger fades an’ he lights his own cigar before he pours us each a few fingers of scotch.

“She has cats,” I say offhandedly, seein’ if I can throw him off. “Two of ‘em.”

“Gambit’s got three cats,” Jimmy replies. “I can handle some goddamn cats. Cats ain’t the thing I gotta problem with.” He takes a deep puff, tosses the liquor down his throat, and sits heavily in his chair, borin’ his eyes into mine.

“You don’t stay here,” he says flatly. “You don’t sleep here, you don’t eat here, you don’t hang out here, an’ you don’t fuck here. I don’t wanna see your ugly-ass face an’ I don’t wanna smell your disgustin’ scent anywhere except on your woman. You pick her up an’ drop her off outside the gates. Non-negotiable.”

“I get it,” I say. “Big Bad Motherfuckin’ Sabretooth ain’t comin’ near your precious school. That is, if she’s safe; but I fuckin’ swear, Jimmy, if somethin’ happens, I’ll fuckin’ shred any one of you that stands between me n’ her.”

“Noted.”

The two of us sit in silence for a few minutes, drinkin’ excellent scotch an’ smokin’ those first-rate Cubans. We study each other; we’re used to lookin’ for weaknesses we can exploit. He’s got Ororo; he’s got the school.

Getting’ soft in old age, I guess, but if I’m bein’ honest, Jimmy’ll win any round against me ‘cause he’s taking care of my biggest weakness: you. An’ he knows it too. Bastard won’t be afraid to use you against me if he has too; I kinda admire him for it. I’d do the exact same fuckin’ thing if our positions were reversed.

It also means you’re safe, even from me if it comes to that. I hope it never does, though.

He stands, grindin’ out the cigar in an ashtray he produced from the same drawer, an’ starts openin’ windows. “I’m gonna let you tell her about accommodations. Figured she’d take it better hearin’ it from her mate.”

The word sounds strange comin’ from someone else’s mouth, foreign, although I know he’s prob’ly one of the only people in the world that might have a mate someday.

Heh. To paraphrase Mr. T, I pity that fool.

I lean forward, an’ ‘cause I’m still a fuckin’ bastard an’ want to remind him, I crush the cigar out on his desk. He narrows his eyes an’ I know he’s pissed, but he don’t react. “I ain’t thankin’ you,” I snarl.

Jimmy barks a laugh. “Didn’t expect it,” he says, pickin’ up my waste an’ tossin’ it in the ashtray. “Havin’ you owe me is _all_ the thanks, I need, Vic.”

These people hate my fuckin’ guts an’ rightfully so. I’ve fucked these X-Bastards around, I’ve fucked them up, hell, I think I prob’ly even fucked some of ‘em, so I didn’t even imagine Jimmy’d wanna get his hands dirty stoopin’ down to pick me up outta the mud.

He crosses to the door an’ opens it, motionin’ outside. I barely get out in the hall before you come barrelin’ towards me. I catch you with a grunt as you leap at me, your legs wrappin’ ‘round my waist. Despite the fact there’s other people standin’ around, you plant one on me so fierce, I swear you suck mosta the barbs offa my tongue. You got me purrin’ when you finally lean back, an excited look on your face.

“This place is the _shit_!” you exclaim breathlessly. “I don’t know who you had to blow to get me in here, but I can’t thank you enough.”

I hear Kitty an’ Logan suppress a laugh at your statement an’ I’m suddenly jealous every one here’s gonna get to hear your crass quips ‘cept me, but the feelin’ don’t stay long.

You’re a delicious weight in my arms, your groin pressed against my stomach, your hands on my shoulders. The kiss you’d given me got my mind rollin’ an’ I can think of several hundred ways you can thank me, many of ‘em illegal in the state of New York.

“Notwithstanding the abnormal—um— _circumstances_ ,” Big Blue says, “your grades are exemplary Miss—uh—Ames. I could not in good conscious turn away such a wonderful mind such as yourself.”

“See?” I say, smiling at you. “I didn’t do shit; this was all you, tiger. But I ain’t gonna stop you from thankin’ me if that’s the kind of thing you’re into.”

“You know it is,” you murmur lustily before you lay another toe curlin’ kiss on me.

Shit, I want you so bad an’ I know you want me just as much, but from the look I’m gettin’ from the runt, we ain’t gonna have much time together. Reluctantly, I pull you offa me an’ lower you gently to the ground.

“Let’s get your shit,” I say, takin’ your hand. “Gotta a few things to tell you before I go.”

You don’t got much, just a few small suitcases with a few clothes, toiletries, an’ some trinkets—books mostly. Bob an’ Doug McKenzie, your cats, will be comin’ down with me next week once their waitin’ period is over.

You’re pissed as hell when I tell you that I can’t stay with you when I’m in town. It’s all fuckin’ cute an’ shit. I love it when you get all pissy with someone else, the fire behind your eyes, the way your lips purse, the way your cheeks redden.

“I’m not gonna let some short, smelly man wearing a fucking ugly tie tell me I can’t be with you whenever we have time! He’s just gonna have to suck it the fuck up or kick me the hell out. If I can’t be with you, I’d rather fucking die.”

Christ, what did I ever do to deserve you?

“No, tiger,” I say firmly. “I busted my ass to get you here ‘cause it’s the only place I know you’ll be safe; don’t fuck it up.”

You get all pouty an’ I can feel the Yosemite Sam in you about to have a rootin’, tootin’ tirade, but I silence you with a kiss.

“I got a place not far from here that makes this one look like a third world country’s fuckin’ outhouse,” I say. “‘Sides, we’ll get you a car so’s you can zip back an’ forth when you’re with me.”

You get excited all over again an’ I can’t help but wonder what’s gonna happen when I hand you a small rectangular box. It ain’t wrapped or shit like that; I ain’t got the patience to be fuckin’ Martha Stewart, so it’s just plain.

You whip the lid off an’ peer inside.

“It’s a bank card,” I tell. “I took all the money you gave me an’ put it in an account for you. I diversified some of it, stocks an’ bonds an’ shit. Password an’ account number is on the back. Change it ASAP.”

“Oh, Victor,” Your fingers stroke the card before you look up at me, your beautiful eyes fillin’ with tears.

Fuck. I hate it when you cry, even if it’s from happiness. I’m a man, y’know? Sure, I may have done a ton of shit and seen a ton of shit, but the Female Emotional Scale ain’t in my wheelhouse. I only have three emotions—Angry, Not So Angry, an’ Horny—an’ I can make sense of that. They’re all I need to make it through the day.

“Pick it up,” I say, a bit flustered. “There’s somethin’ else.”

A shiny black Amex stops your tears immediately an’ I can’t help feelin’ relieved.

“I know you’re a strong independent woman an’ shit,” I say, “an’ that’s what the bank account is for; that’s all yours, do whatever with it, I don’t care. The Amex is a gift. Buy all the fancy shit you want, as long as some of it’s sexy an’ I get to take if offa you.”

You’re fuckin’ thrilled an’ it’s all I can do to keep you from tearin’ my goddamn clothes off as you try to climb me like a tree. Honestly, I’d fuck you against the car if I could, but fuckin’ Jimmy’s watchin’ an’ I don’t want him stealin’ any of my great sex moves to use on Ororo. Bastard’s enough like me as it is—except shorter an’ uglier.

While we’re both disappointed that we ain’t gonna get some alone time before I go, we manage to give ‘em a pretty good show. I even get my hands under your shirt for a bit of the ol’ squeeze an’ fondle.

Nice.

“I’ll miss you,” you whisper against my ear once we got each other all presentable again.

“Me too, tiger.”

It’s too soon before I’m in the car, watchin’ you get smaller in my rear view mirror as I drive away. I don’t like the idea of bein’ away from you for so long—a week seems like a fuckin’ eternity—but there’s somethin’ important I gotta take care of.

 

~*~*~

 

The bar’s dingy yet crowded, which is a good thing as far as I’m concerned. Sure, I may be built like a three-storey brick shithouse, but in a crappy pub filled with weirdoes with asymmetrical multi-coloured haircuts, head-to-toe tattoos, all sorts of new an’ inventive piercin’s, who’s gonna pay attention to l’il ol’ me?

Absolutely fuckin’ no one.

You slide into the booth an’ push a beer towards me. I grab it an’ take a long pull. I can’t get drunk too often, but I still like tryin’ an’ the wash of cold alcohol down my dry throat feels good.

“So,” you say in a voice that ain’t yours, “how do you wanna do this?”

“I ain’t gonna tell you ‘til you change,” I growl, disgusted.

Mystique can’t imitate someone’s tone unless she’s heard at least ten syllables an’ in a way, I’m kinda glad that part of you’s still a mystery to her. I’d hate to hear your speech comin’ from her body.

You flash me a sexy smile, reachin’ over to stroke my fingers. “Don’t like it? I made it special just for you.”

“Voice ain’t right,” I jerk my hand away from your touch. It don’t feel right; skin’s odd somehow. “‘Sides, how’d you know? Been keepin’ it on the DL.”

“Sabe, you know who you’re talking to, right? I keep _very_ close tabs on you.”

I huff. “Didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t; I just don’t want you getting in my way.”

I bark a laugh as Raven Darkholme, or Mystique as she’s better known as, shifts her looks to resemble some of the more outlandish clientele. She claims she don’t care, but I know better.

Me n’ her have a long, complicated history. On an’ off lovers, knocked her up once (don’t like to talk about that), an’ I spent a lot of time followin’ her around like a lost puppy dog, doin’ her biddin’ an’ whatnot. She’s a smart lady, sly, wicked as sin, an’ almost as sadistic as myself.

See? A lot of attractive qualities I admire in a woman, but we ain’t like that no more. Sure, we still help each other out occasionally with plots an’ schemes an’ the like, but it’s all strictly professional now. Been like that for a few decades.

Yep, we’re both older n’ Methuselah’s donkey.

Heh. Bible reference.

Mystique takes a swallow of beer an’ looks at me, a smug smile on her face. “Does this mate thing mean you’re off the market?”

“Yeah.”

“Pity.”

I snort. “Let’s do this fuckin’ thing. I got shit to do.”

She turned the bottle in her hands, her eyebrows raised. “You don’t have time for an old friend?”

“We never been friends, Raven,” I say. “We only use each other when we need somethin’.”

“Like now?”

“Like now.”

“I need more time,” Mystique says before takin’ another sip.

I’m gettin’ impatient. This is just like her, playin’ games, stringin’ me along. Back when we were in whatever our relationship was, she was at this type of shit all the time; of course, back in the day, I’d do anythin’ Raven asked. I ain’t ashamed to admit I let my dick lead me around in the past.

Kinda still do, actually—but you’re the only one leadin’ me around now.

“Shit, Raven,” I say. “I ain’t like I asked you to smuggle in the fuckin’ moon. It’s just some address an’ information. You startin’ to lose your edge?”

Her eyes shoot daggers at me an’ I get to my feet, ready to move on lest she start shootin’ real daggers at my person.

“You have until tomorrow mornin’. Drop it off at the usual place an’ once I get it, I’ll send you the cash,” I tell her, tossin’ a few bucks on the table. “I got a deadline, Raven; I ain’t fuckin’ around.”

Mystique doesn’t say anythin’ as I leave, an’ the crowd parts, lettin’ me pass. I’m kinda pissed that she didn’t have what I asked her for. If anyone could get the information I needed, it’d be Raven. I was countin’ on her to have it ready for me so’s I get it over with.

I ain’t gonna complain ‘bout an extra night to myself, though. I’m fuckin’ bushed, havin’ spent most of the day travellin’, gettin’ you to Westchester County, settlin’ you in, then comin’ back home. It don’t seem like I did much, but not havin’ you near is havin’ some kind of affect on me.

The penthouse is cool an’ dark, dim lightin’ comin’ on as I move through the space. Bob McKenzie is sprawled on the couch, his green eyes followin’ me as I go to my computer. Doug McKenzie skitters past me in a flash, his claws slashin’ at my shins; I hiss at him an’ he hides behind the couch.

Doug don’t like me much, but I haven’t done anythin’ to endear myself to the l’il fucker—except save his goddamn life. You tell me some cats are just fuckin’ assholes an’ there ain’t no changin’ ‘em, an’ perhaps in that aspect, me an’ Doug are too much alike.

Heh.

Stupid fuckin’ cat.

I feel my cell vibrate in my pocket as my computer’s bootin’ up an’ pull it out.

Y – _What are you wearing?_

Me - _Go to sleep, little girl. It’s a school night._

Y – _It’s hard sleeping without you next to me, Big Bad Wolf._ _L_

Me – _You’ll get used to it_

Y – _Seriously, though, what’re you wearing?_

Me – _The cats are fine_

It ain’t that I don’t wanna sext—normally I’d sext the hell out of you, dick pics an’ all (I fuckin’ love the 21st century SO FUCKIN’ MUCH)—but I got so much other shit to do. It seems odd for me to say it, but sex is the last thing on my mind right now. On the Sabretooth Emotional Scale, I’m at a solid Angry.

Y – _This oughta get you huffin’ and puffin’, my sexy Big Bad Wolf_

A tit pic follows an’ the Scale tilts ever so slightly to Horny.

Fuck.

No; I ain’t got time for this. Be strong. BE. STRONG.

I look at the photo again an’ the Scale shoots past Horny, almost goin’ of the charts. Suddenly, my dick makes my finger hit the button that connects you to me.

“Goddammit, tiger,” I growl when you answer. “Are you tryin’ to fuckin’ give me a stroke?”

You laugh, a sultry, lusty sound. “I _am_ trying to give you a stroke,” you tease, “but I’m too far away; you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

Fuck.

“We’ve already established that I’m naked,” you purr. “So, now it’s your turn to tell me what you’re wearing.”

I can hear your free hand caressin’ your skin an’ I’m fumbling with my pants, practically yankin’ the zipper clean off. It’s almost a relief when my cock springs out. It was gettin’ kinda hot an’ tight in there. I put you on speaker phone and lay the cell on my desk.

“Ain’t wearin’ anything at all, tiger,” I murmur.

“Mmmmmm, you're a dirty liar,” you sigh. “I want you to touch your cock for me, Mr. Creed. Wrap your hand around it.”

I can’t help myself when you’re like this, when you’re the one in control. My hand closes around my erection an’ I hiss in delight.

“Good boy,” you say. I bite back a whimper as a small trickle of pre-come leaks from the tip. “Now, get your palm good and dripping and start fisting yourself nice and slow.”

“You touchin’ yourself, baby?” I growl as my hand begins to move of its own accord.

The cell dings an’ I look to see a photo of your fingers pressed against your swollen clit, wetness already glistenin’ at your openin’.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

It’s agony workin’ my cock all unhurried like. I want it fast an’ furious an’ you hear my frustrated groans as I strain to do what I want.

“Ah ah ah, Mr. Creed,” you chide, “I’m the one in charge here, remember? I want you moaning and panting like the nasty, smutty whore you are.”

“Christ,” I force the word through clenched teeth. “Tiger, I wanna—“

“This isn’t about what _you_ want,” Your voice is whip-snap sharp, makin’ me moan as the sound cracks across the phone. “This is about what _I_ want, you horrible, selfish man! No more talking from you until I say so.”

Goddammit, I love it when you get all nasty an’ forceful with me, all that foul language drippin’ from those sweet lips. Over my gasps an’ grunts, I hear the sound of your fingers workin’ in an’ out of your delicious pussy.

“I bet your listening to this, aren’t you? This is how fucking wet your voice gets me,” Your growl is low an’ sexy an’ I can picture you touchin’ yourself, those fingers bringin’ you to ecstasy.

“I bet you wish it was your cock buried inside me, don’t you?”

You know I can’t answer you an’ my snarl makes you laugh. Goddamn right I wish I was deep inside of you, makin’ you scream my name. My cock is startin’ to ache, my breath comin’ faster. I’m gonna need to come soon, but I won’t be able to until you tell me I can.

“You’re getting close; I can tell,” you whisper. “Stroke yourself harder now, faster, the way you like.”

Finally.

I can’t help the loud groan that works its way out from a bottomless depth. This is what I was waitin’ for, what I wanted. I imagine your mouth around my cock, wet an’ hot, slidin’ that sweet tongue all around.

“Do you want to come now, slut? Tell me; do you want to come all over that expensive shirt you’re wearing?”

“Yes!” I shout, ‘cause goddamn, I can barely wait another second.

Fuck, it’s only Armani. I can get another one, easy peasy lemon squeezy. They have my size on file, but I do love the personal touch of a made-to-measure.

“Then do it,” you hiss. “Spurt that come all over that hand-tailored bullshit, you sloppy whore.”

I grunt as I splatter my load all over my ivory, hand-stitched, made-to-measure Armani shirt as white lights burst in front of my eyes. It keeps comin’, so I let it, squeezin’ myself as hard as I dare in order to get every drop.

Gaspin’, I lean towards the cell just in time to hear you come, cryin’ out my name as you do. It’s almost enough to make me fuckin’ hard again.

“Shit, Victor,” you pant. “You’re just as good over the phone as you are in person.”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie,” I say. “My cock is _much_ better in person. Now, let me hear you lick those fingers, tiger.”

The cell dings an’ I get a live video of you suckin’ at your digits, cleanin’ off all that tasty pussy juice. Your cheeks are flushed from your orgasm, your skin shiny with sweat. I wish I was there to lap it all off you, maybe get you squirmin’ again.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur once you pull your fingers from your mouth an’ the video vanishes.

“I miss you,” you say, your voice soundin’ heartbroken.

“We’ll be together soon, tiger,” I say. “I promise.”

“I can’t wait.”

“You’re up past your bedtime, you naughty girl,” I growl, makin’ you squeal. “Someone’s got school in the mornin’ an’ I don’t wanna hear ‘bout any bad behaviour ‘cause then I’d haveta spank you.”

“Will you spank me anyway?” you ask breathlessly.

“You know I will. ‘Night, tiger.”

“Goodnight, Victor.”

I stand up an’ remove my shirt, wipin’ at the come on my thighs an’ neck before tossin’ it on the floor. Bob strolls over to sniff at it, then he flops onto it, purrin’ like crazy. Unlike Doug, I think Bob likes me just a li’l bit _too_ much. Makes him easy to live with, so I’ll take what I can get.

Just as I’m sittin’ down to check my emails, the elevator door dings. It’s around 11 o’clock, too late for regular visitors, so I figure it’s Ryan, who lives on the floor below me, or Mazur, who lives on the floor below Ryan.

Both are employees of mine, Ryan’s my driver an’ general go-fer an’ I’ve recently put Mazur in charge of gettin’ me the finest weaponry to buy an’ sell. The old man’s a fuckin’ pip—a bit too addicted to his brother’s vodka, though.

It’s Mazur; I can smell him as soon as he’s off the elevator, but somethin’s wrong. His heart’s goin’ real fast an’ the stench of nervous sweat is almost overpowerin’ the rancid cologne he likes to wear.

“What’s up, old man?” I ask as he comes into view. “You got another shipment for me to check out?”

He’s not dressed in his normal outfit of faded slacks, shiny at the ass an’ knees from years of year, and a cheap dress shirt, usually made from fuckin' polyester or a blend that makes my skin crawl.

He’s dressed in a suit—looks like Ralph Lauren Purple Lable an’ that shit ain’t cheap—an’ his cap is missin’ revealin’ a head of soft silver hair. The man looks like he should be playin’ James Bond, if Bond were in his mid-seventies.

My hackles are immediately up. This ain’t right.

“Mr. Creed,” Mazur says in an immaculate English accent, “Come with me, please.”

What the fuck? Who the fuck is this guy? What the fuck is goin’ on?

Since I don’t know the answers, the Sabretooth Emotional Scale shoots right to Anger an’ I get super-dee-duper pissed. This imposter is in MY home, threatenin’ ME.

My claws are out, my teeth are bared an’ I launch myself at him. He manages to duck me somehow an’ I feel a pinch in my lower back, then two more along my shoulders as I land in a crouch by the wall length electric fireplace.

I reach back to yank one out: tranq darts tipped with Carbonadium. Shit.

They’re already takin’ effect; I can’t seem to get out of my crouch, instead fallin’ back on my ass like a toddler learnin’ to walk. The beast is howlin’, ready to take over, but even it’s no match for whatever they drugged me with. I fall onto my side, no longer able to sit upright. The room’s spinnin’ too much for my eyes to focus.

“This would have been _so_ much easier if you had only cooperated,” says Mazur as he leans over me. He tags me with a few more darts. “I have no idea how we’re going to move him.”

“Don’t worry,” replies a familiar voice. “I know all the tricks.”

Mystique, in her usual blue form, kneels in front of me, taking my face in her hand. I’m tryin’ desperately to get my vision workin’, but I ain’t feelin’s so hot now. Chills start rollin’ through my body while sweat starts to bead along my forehead. I can’t stop my limbs from tremblin’.

“Raven,” I manage to croak out despite the fact my tongue is a dry lump in my mouth. “Wha th’ fuck?”

Mystique smiles at me as her form goes blurry. Then you’re there, grinnin’ down at me. “It’s nothing personal,” you say as you pat my cheek. “It’s just that you wouldn’t _believe_ the price on your woman’s head. It’s an obscene amount, Victor, _way_ more than you could ever give me.”

I’m barely registerin’ what you’re sayin’. How are you here? Didn’t I take you to Jimmy’s stupid fuckin’ school? Am I still at the school? Did the X-Fuckers take me down?

“Tiger …”

It’s all I manage to get out before my voice dies completely an’ I lay there limply, still not sure why I can’t move my goddamn muscles. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill the runt if this has anythin’ to do with him.

You stand, but I can hardly make you out; you look like a mirage, shimmerin’ on the horizon. I reach out blindly an’ feel someone knock my hand away.

“We only use each other when we need something, isn’t that what you said?” Your voice is gettin’ faint. “Well, I’m using you to get a fuck ton of money, so I’m not going outside the definition of our working relationship. It’s all on the level.”

“I’ve gotten the cats in the carrier, Mystique,” says a man who sounds like a total assbag.

“Good,” you say. “Shoot the big lug again and let’s get out of here. I’ll grab his cell.”

Another pinch an’ all my senses fade, ‘cept for the image of you wavin’ goodbye to me as I drive away. I try to wave back, but my arms are a dead weight, all control over my motor skills gone.

Pretty soon, you’re gone as well, leavin’ me alone in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Sir With Love (1967), starring Sidney Poitier, Christian Roberts, Julie Geeson, & Lulu (who sings the hit song of the same name). Directed/produced/directed by James Clavell. Distributed by Columbia Pictures
> 
> Mr. T - real name: Laurence Tureaud. Best known for his portrayal of B.A. Baracas in the 1980's hit TV show The A-Team. Pitying fools since 1952.
> 
> Yosemite Sam - of Loony Tunes/Merrie Melodies fame. He's "the hootinst, tootinist, shootinist bobtail wildcat in the west!” 1944-Present. Originally voiced by the super-fantastic Mel Blanc.
> 
> American Express Centurion Card - informally know as Amex Black. You gotta be one rich SOB to own one of these.
> 
> Methuselah - A biblical character who lived a hell of a long time. Some religious texts mention his age to be around 969. He was also Noah's grandfather - arc shout out! No unicorns, Noah? Really?! REALLY?!


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